


My heart is beating from me

by Enochian Things (Salr323)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Episode: s09e06 Heaven Can't Wait, Human Castiel, M/M, Pining, Road Trips, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-02
Updated: 2016-03-09
Packaged: 2018-05-24 09:40:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 55,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6149386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salr323/pseuds/Enochian%20Things
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Rexford, Castiel tries to live a normal life and Dean tries to let him go...  But nothing’s ever that easy.</p><p>(Canon divergent from s9e06 “Heaven Can’t Wait”)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Under heavy skies, the lake spreads wide and leaden. Boneyard trees haunt its banks, dipping skeletal fingers into black water._

_Dean stands on the shore trapped by holy fire. Beyond the flames, Cas is knee-deep in the lake, reaching back toward him._ Help me _, he begs._ Dean, please _._

_But Dean can’t go to him; the flames have him imprisoned._

__He’s already betrayed you _, Sam says from behind. Only it’s not Sam, it’s Lucifer wearing his brother’s face._ I always told you it would end like this. He will always betray you, Dean. __

 __Fuck you _, Dean snarls and turns away._

 _Cas is deeper in the water now and dressed in the stupid Gas-n-Sip vest._ Don’t leave me here _, Cas says, panicked_. Dean, don’t leave me _._

 __I won’t _, he promises but he still can’t escape the holy fire._ I don’t want to leave you _._

_But Cas is moving now, turning around and wading out into the lake. Alone._

__Cas, stop!

_He doesn’t. He keeps on walking with his arms spread wide as the water rises up and up, past his shoulders._

__Cas! __

_The water is over his head now, his hair floating out black under the lake. And then Dean’s free. Running. But he’s too slow. The water’s like treacle, like ice. He can’t get through it._

_And Cas is looking up at him from beneath the surface with dead white eyes, his hair drifting in the slow water of the lake._

__“Cas!”

Dean wakes with a gasp, fear raw in his throat. The minutes tick on until dawn. He doesn’t sleep again.

***

Five months after saying goodbye to Cas in Rexford, three months after Crowley forced Gadreel out of Sam's head, and one month after Sam and Dean restored an uneasy relationship, Dean gets a letter.

It's in a cream colored envelope with gold trim and the handwriting is in heavy black calligraphy. It's addressed to Mr. Dean Winchester and Mr. Sam Winchester c/o the Post Office, Smith Center, KS. Dean’s handed it when he picks up an order of _Dodo Juice Supernatural Hide & Trim Dressing_ (yes, the irony) that he's ordered from Amazon.

The letter sits on the seat next to him all the way back to the bunker, and then on the kitchen counter while Dean heads down into the garage to work on restoring the worn leather of Baby's back seat. When he breaks for lunch, it's still sitting there on the counter and he opens it while he waits for the microwave to heat up a burrito.

It's a wedding invitation. It reads: __

_Steven Kilmister and Daphne Allen joyfully invite you to share in their happiness as they unite in marriage on Friday 20 June at three o'clock at their home in Aurora, Colorado._

He stares, blinks, and his first thought is who the hell are Steven and Daphne?

Then he notices the neat handwriting at the bottom of the card, saying 'Please turn this over' and on the other side there's a longer note written in a precise script he recognizes immediately. His stomach drops like he's in free fall, even before he's read the note. He's not heard a word from Cas since he left him in Rexford, and now this... Whatever the hell this is.

The microwave beeps, but he doesn't notice, eyes stumbling over words in his haste to understand. __

_Hello Dean_ , the note says. _As you can see, I took the advice you gave me when we parted in Rexford a few months ago._

_I'm sure you remember that I lived in Colorado as 'Emmanuel' after the Leviathan disaster. You may also remember Daphne, who you briefly met. Daphne had been looking for me since my apparent disappearance two years ago and, shortly after I left Rexford, she found me. Once again she was very kind and insisted that I stay with her when she realized that I was 'between homes' and we have now decided to marry, officially this time._

_You are very busy, of course, and I don’t expect you to attend the wedding, but I thought you might like to know that I am still alive and well._

_I hope you and Sam are both well too and that your work has not been too 'apocalyptic' recently._

_Sincerely,_

_C._

The note's so neat it looks like he's copied it out from rough, like he's agonized over every word, but beneath it there's another line in a hastier scrawl. __

_PS It would be very good to see you again, Dean. _

And then there's something scribbled out that, when Dean tilts the card against the light, looks a lot like _'I miss_ '.

Dean stares at the invitation until his eyes go hot and dry and he remembers to blink. He's not sure what's freaking him out more, the fact that Cas is getting married – _married?_ – or the fact that he thinks Dean told him to do it. As if that’s not the exact opposite of what Dean would tell him to do. What freakin’ advice is Cas talking about? 

“Dean?” Sam says from the kitchen doorway, paused on his way to the refrigerator.

“Hmm?” Dean manages, tearing his eyes away from the note.

“You okay?”

He shakes his head and blurts, “Cas is getting married.”

Sam's eyebrows climb. “What?”

“Here.” Dean offers him the note and drops into a chair at the table.

After a moment, Sam joins him. “Wow,” he says. “That's—”

“Bullshit,” Dean finishes for him. “Right?”

“I was going to say sudden,” Sam says, reading the note. “But I guess he's known this Daphne for a while, huh?”

Dean remembers her, remembers that startled moment when Cas – 'Emmanuel' – had introduced her as his wife. Mousy, he thinks. Insignificant. Not much of anything. Definitely not enough for Cas. “She's sketchy,” he tells Sam and convinces himself of it as the words leave his mouth. “Seriously.”

Sam's eyes narrow. “Why?”

He leans forward, across the table, warming to the subject. “So – okay. You're a woman.” Sam makes to protest, Dean waves it away. “Just imagine. You're a woman, you're out walking by a river in Kansas, and you find a naked dude soaking wet and wandering around in the bushes. He's got total amnesia. I mean, he doesn't even know his own name. What do you do?”

Sam tips his head, frowns. “Call the cops, I guess?”

“Right. Nine-one-one, every time.” He presses a hand to the back of his neck; he can feel a headache building. “What you don't do is take the guy home – to _Colorado_ – give him a new name and keep him.”

“Okay, that's— Is that what happened?”

“Yup.” He blows out a breath, reminded unwillingly of that day at the reservoir – of Cas walking out into the water, of his sodden coat washing up on the shore. He feels cold, empty at the thought of it; those nightmares plagued him for months. “If we'd only taken the time to look, man…” He sighs. “He couldn’t have been that far away.”

Sam shakes his head, turns the wedding invitation over in his hands. “Seriously, Dean? If you'd found Cas right then, you'd have probably killed him.”

“No I wouldn't, I'd...” He trails off, because Sam's not entirely wrong. He can still taste the bitterness, the soul-deep pain of Cas's betrayal. He's forgiven him, yeah, but it still burns. He presses his eyes shut against the worst memories: Cas trapped by the holy fire, Cas breaking Sam's wall, Cas lying to him. He swallows, pushes the thoughts away, and gestures to the invitation. “Question is, what are we going to do about it?”

“About what? The wedding?”

Dean nods. “Yeah, the wedding.” Obviously.

“You mean...?” Sam hesitates. “Whether we should go? We absolutely should go.” 

Dean feels his jaw drop. “You're kidding me.”

“What? No. Of course not.” He frowns. “Seriously, Dean, you're not— You don't really think there's something shady going on here, do you?”

“Uh, yeah,” Dean says, because of course there is. “I don't trust this 'Daphne' chick for a hot minute.”

“Cas seems to.”

“Yeah, well, what does Cas know? He gave it up to a Reaper.” 

Sam frowns at him and Dean glares back; it's a good antidote to the queasy spike of jealousy in the back of his throat. He runs a hand over his mouth. “There's no way this can be what it looks like, Sammy. No way.”

“Look,” Sam concedes, “I get it. It's kinda odd, but, dude...” He looks back down at the note, eyes skimming over the words, “it's pretty obvious Daphne’s giving him things he needs: friendship, security, a place to call home.” When Sam lifts his gaze, there's hardness behind his eyes. Sadness too. “Things he couldn't find anywhere else.”

And, yeah, Dean doesn't need the fucking reminder, thanks very much. “Maybe,” he concedes, because it's not like it isn't blindingly obvious. “But just because we – _I_ – screwed up before, doesn't mean I have to do it again. Dude, he needs us. This, whatever this is, it ain't right. We can't just let him walk into it. Jesus, she could be anything.”

“Or nothing,” Sam says quietly – almost like he knows Dean would think that was worse. “She could just be an ordinary woman who cares about Cas, who _loves_ him.”

“Yeah right,” Dean snorts. “And I'm the Queen of freakin’ Sheeba.”

Sam pushes the note across the table toward him. “Are you sure you're not just, maybe, a little jealous?”

“ _What_?”

“I mean of what Cas has,” Sam adds hastily. “Peace, safety – someone to come home to at the end of the day. While we...” He shakes his head, gestures around the bunker. “We got Abaddon, and Crowley, and pissed-off angels.” His breath leaves him in a sigh. “He's out, man. Cas got out. Maybe we should just celebrate that?”

And there's no damn reason why that should make him squirm, why the thought of Cas with a white picket fence and 2.4 kids should coil up sharp beneath his ribs, like a blade. But it does, and that just serves to prove that Sam's wrong. “Look,” Dean says, “if I thought this was real, then sure, I'd raise a glass at the wedding. Of course I would. But this is _Cas_. Castiel. Angel of the Lord. You really think that's what's going on here?”

“He's human, Dean. He's not— And you know, maybe this is for the best. As much as I love the guy, Cas hasn’t exactly made the best choices recently.”

That rankles like fingers on a chalkboard. “Hey,” he says, sharp, “without Cas we'd be balls-deep in the freakin' Apocalypse right now. And don't you forget it.” 

Sam lifts his hand, accepting the point. “Sure, but Dean... Crowley, Naomi, Metatron?”

“Yeah, well, we ain't exactly the poster boys for good choices either,” Dean says. “And Cas is a friend. We owe it to him to watch his back.”

“Yeah,” Sam says. “And we owe it to him to let him go. Let him be happy and away from all this crap. He's earned it, dude. After everything, he's earned a little peace, right?”

“Like I said, if that's what I thought this was...”

Sam rocks back in his chair, arms folded. “So, what, you're gonna turn up at the wedding and object on the grounds that the bride's a monster?”

“Don't be a jerk,” Dean says. “I'm gonna prove it way sooner than that.”

***

Dean pulls up in front of the house with a bottle of holy water, a silver blade and a pocketful of rock salt. Little has changed in the couple years since he was last here – that is, not much about the house has changed. For him, pretty much everything has changed.

Last time, he’d been desperate to save his brother. This time, Sam’s safe in the bunker. Then, guilt had made Cas lock himself away inside his own head. Now it’s Dean who feels guilt ticking over in the pit of his stomach, a constant needling presence. Then, Cas had been a one-time friend who had betrayed him, cut him hard and deep. Now? Well, Purgatory had changed Dean; everything was so clear there, so pure. He’d figured out a lot of crap, seen things for what they really were, and that self-awareness had followed him home even when Cas hadn’t.

So when he looks up at the house he has a name for the turbulence he’s feeling. Even if it will never be acted on, or admitted out loud, he has a name for what he feels for Cas. But it only serves to intensify his guilt at throwing Cas out of the bunker when he most needed help; apparently there’s no line that Dean won’t cross to keep his brother safe, including turning his back on everyone else he loves. 

Cas certainly deserves better people in his life than him, and if he could believe that this Daphne Allen chick was it then he’d stow his envy and try to be happy for him. He would. But he can’t. Not even back when he was still seething with rage did he think there was anything right about this set-up. So he figures he has a duty to find out exactly what Daphne Allen is and to save Cas from making a dangerous mistake. It’s the least he can do. 

It’s also _all_ he can do; he’s blown his other options. It was obvious when they’d met in Rexford that he’d lost Cas’s trust. The way he used to look at Dean like he was the single brightest thing in the world had been replaced by a wary detachment, as if Cas was waiting for a blow, waiting for Dean to let him down again. And even though he can tell Cas the truth now, he knows it won’t help regain his trust because the truth sucks even worse than the deception. 

_Yeah, sorry I threw you out. Sorry I wasn’t there for you when you were starving on the street, when you had angels on your tail. Guess that was pretty traumatic, huh, being human and vulnerable, being tortured and fucking_ murdered _? Guess that really sucked. You were probably desperate for a friend, right? For safety. But, hey, what can I say? I did it for Sam. Sorry, dude, but priorities. You get it, right? You get that however bad things are for you, Sam will always come first._

Yeah, so that's not a conversation he ever wants to have.

He rolls his shoulders, pushing the guilt deep enough that he can function past it. What’s done is done, and he can’t honestly say he’d do it different if he could. Sam will always come first; that's just the way it is. Makes Dean a pretty sucky friend, but there you have it. Dean’s a pretty sucky person.

Getting out the car, he closes the door and checks the silver blade under his jacket, the salt and iron in his pocket and the bottle of holy water in his hand. The trick will be to do this casual, not to arouse Daphne’s suspicions until he’s seen her burn, or seen her eyes flick to black. There’s a chance she’s a witch, of course, but he’ll rule out the easy things first and hopefully without tipping his hand.

Bracing himself, he heads up the steps to the house and tries not to remember that shattering moment when he’d recognized ‘Emmanuel’ for the first time. He’s not sure he’s ever felt such a clash of relief and rage. Standing on the porch, he swallows, wipes his sweaty hands on the back of his jeans, and raps on the door. He peers through the window while he waits, but can’t see anyone inside.

Maybe they’re out. Maybe they’re registering for a freakin’ wedding list, choosing flowers, buying his ‘n’ hers monogrammed towel sets—

The door opens and he’s face-to-face with a petite woman in neat clothes, with neat hair, and an expression of suspicion. “You,” she says, fingers tightening on the door.

Dean smiles the kind of smile he gives demons before he draws a blade. “Hey Daph,” he says and resists the urge to splash holy water right into her face. 

“Why are you here?” She steps forward, narrowing the doorway. 

Yeah, she knows he’s on to her. She _so_ knows. “What’s the matter?” he says. “You got something to hide, Daph?”

“What?” Her eyes grow sharp. “Of course not.”

“Then you gonna let me in?”

Her expression tightens. “Last time you were here you took him away,” she says and makes no move to step back even when Dean slips a foot in the door. She’s not intimidated, he’ll give her that.

Dean lifts his hands, like he’s unarmed. “I’m only here to talk, Daph.”

“About what?”

He cocks his head, trying to get a read on her. “About ‘Steve’. And what you want with him.”

“What I want _with_ him?”

“Come on,” Dean says, unscrewing the bottle of holy water and taking a sip. “Let’s not—” He faux-fumbles the bottle, spilling a little water over her hand where she’s clutching the door.

She pulls it back with a frown, brings it to her lips to suck the water off. There’s no burn though; she’s not a demon. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says. “Steve and I—”

“Dean?” The voice is unmistakable and cuts right through him, through the guilt and the loss, to the heart of him, stirring up a smile despite everything.

Past Daphne, he sees Cas standing in the hallway. He’s dressed in jeans and a hideous grey zip up cardigan, is clean shaven and looks generally healthier than the last time Dean saw him. “Hey,” Deans says, biting back ‘Cas’ before it slips out. 

His frown hasn’t changed, though, nor his wariness. He doesn’t move closer. “Why are you here?”

Dean lets his mouth tick up into a half smile. “Got your invitation, dude.”

“The wedding isn’t for months.”

“What?” Dean says, pressing his advantage while Daphne is distracted and slipping into the hallway. “A guy can’t come congratulate an old friend?”

Cas shifts, frowning, almost backing up. “Of course,” he says. “I was—I just didn’t expect you.”

Dean glances around the house. It’s nice. Too nice, like it’s some kind of show home. “I guess I could have called, if you ever answered your damn phone.” He follows it with a sharp smile that he figures hurts him more than anyone else.

“I— It broke,” Cas says, obviously lying. “I have a new one.”

“Right.” Dean doesn’t bother to point out that Cas could have given him the new number. They both know why he didn’t. 

Daphne has moved to stand closer to Cas, wrapping her hand in his in a way that actually turns Dean’s stomach. But he finds he can’t look away, it’s as if the liquid pain of it is addictive. “I guess I’ll go make some tea,” Daphne says, more to Cas than Dean.

Cas nods. “Thank you. Dean and I...” He trails off and when Dean looks up, away from their joined hands, he finds Cas staring at him in genuine confusion, like he really doesn’t know why Dean’s there. 

That hurts in a whole new way, and Dean brazens it out with another fake smile. “We’ll catch up for a while,” he says. 

Cas shows him into the front room with a kind of self-satisfaction that’s all kinds of messed up. “Have a seat,” he offers, suddenly king of the freakin’ hill.

Like the rest of the house, the furniture is pristine, as if it’s barely lived in. Dean has a vague memory of it being the same the last time he was here, but then there had been demons dead on the porch and Sam just hours away from having his brain liquefied. He swallows the memory and perches on the edge of a chair. Cas sits down opposite him, casts about for something to say, and ends up with, “How’s Sam?”

“He’s—” Yeah, so that’s not exactly a safe subject. Dean shifts, uncomfortable on the perfect chair. “He’s better. Doing good.”

“I’m glad,” Cas says, and he sounds so earnest it hurts. 

Dean clears his tight throat. It's the only sound staving off the encroaching silence. From the kitchen, he can hear Daphne making tea or – who knows – magicking it up out of nowhere. There’s a quiet burble from the radio. It sounds like freakin’ NPR. He shifts again, feels the silver blade under his jacket and wonders how to press it to her skin without Cas seeing.

On the other side of the room, Cas gets to his feet. “I, um,” he says. Then, “Why are you here, Dean? I know it’s not the wedding. Is there something—?” He shakes his head. “Why would you come here?”

That stings, probably more than Cas intends. “Seriously,” Dean says, “I can’t come visit a friend?”

Cas watches him for a beat. “That’s not what you do. You only visit people when you need something, but there’s nothing you could possibly—”

“That’s not true,” Dean objects, growing hot in his jacket. But he can’t take it off because of the knife.

Like he's reading his mind, Cas’s eyes dip to Dean’s jacket and his expression freezes. “Dean,” he says in disbelief. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” he objects, just as Daphne walks into the room with a tray, two cups of tea, milk and sugar. Yeah, proper little hostess. 

Cas takes the tray from her, sets it down, and Dean swallows hard when he sees Cas move to stand in front of Daphne – between her and Dean, like he’s protecting her. Slowly, Dean gets to his feet. “Cas...”

“That’s holy water?” Cas nods at the bottle on the table. “And the knife you’re carrying, it’s silver?”

Dean’s eyes widen, dart to Daphne and back again. “Um—”

“He thinks I’m a demon?” Daphne says, glancing up at Cas like he’s Mr. Wonderful.

“Or some other unnatural creature,” Cas says, his voice that cool steel Dean first knew. He tips his head. “She isn’t, of course. I’m not _stupid_ , Dean.” 

Okay, and this is getting awkward real fast. “No one said you were, dude, but come on...” He nods toward Daphne. “Really?”

“Really what?”

Inside his mind he can hear a small voice, a lot like Sam’s, yelling at him to shut the fuck up. But it’s a very small voice and it’s difficult to hear past the desperate rushing of the blood through his ears. Because if Daphne isn’t a monster, then what the hell is this? “Dude,” he says, “you don’t think there’s something off here?”

“Is that why you came?” Cas says, ignoring the question. “Because you thought Daphne wasn’t human?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time you got fooled.”

A muscle twitches in Cas’s jaw. “Well, not this time. The hunt’s a bust, Dean. You can go home.”

That jolts him, heart tripping in his chest. “It’s not— Jesus, it’s not a _hunt_.”

“Isn’t it?” Cas is still keeping himself between Dean and Daphne, arms loose at his side; Dean recognizes the stance, and for all that Cas is human he looks as dangerous as ever.

Dean holds up his hands. “Maybe I’m just trying to look out for you?”

“Since when—” He stops himself, lips pressing together. “I think you should go.”

But Daphne puts her hand on his arm, fingers curling into his sweater. “Steve, it's okay,” she says. “It's natural for him to be wary. Given what's hunting you.”

That brings Dean up short and his gaze flicks to Cas. “What's hunting you?”

“Steve's told me everything,” Daphne says when Cas is silent. She holds out her arm, pulls up her sleeve. “Go ahead, test the silver and the salt and iron.”

Dean hesitates, aware of Cas's glare. Thing is, if she was some kind of monster she might try to double-bluff him just like this and he can't take the risk. He feels like a douche doing it with Cas watching him like he might still be able to smite him, but that doesn't stop Dean from pressing the silver and iron to her skin, sprinkling salt on her arm. Daphne licks her finger, dabs it into the salt and licks it off holding Dean's gaze the whole time with steady green eyes. 

“Okay,” Dean says when it's done, slipping the knife back into his jacket, the iron into his pocket. 

“Wait,” Daphne says then, and to his horror she pulls at the hem of her shirt.

“Hey,” he objects, with a startled look at Cas. “What—?”

Cas growls, “Just look.”

Reluctantly he looks and just over Daphne's hipbone he sees an anti-demon-possession tattoo alongside an angel-warding sigil. 

“Satisfied?” Cas says.

Dean thinks _she could still be a witch_ , but doesn't say it out loud. What he says is, “Matching tattoos. Cute.”

Daphne straightens her sweater. “So. How about that tea?”

“It's okay,” Cas says. “Dean was just leaving. It's a long drive home.”

And he gets why Cas is pissed, he does, but he doesn't give a crap. “I had to be sure, man,” he says, refusing to apologize. Refusing to think about what it means that Daphne's human and that this is _real_.

“So now you're sure,” Cas says. “And you can leave.”

Suddenly Dean really, _really_ needs a drink. And he doesn't mean tea. “Yeah, okay,” he says, “guess I'll hit the road then.”

“It's late.” Daphne sounds polite but reluctant. “You could stay if—”

“No.” He and Cas say it together and their eyes meet, hold there, all push and pull as the silence stretches taught between them. And all Dean can think is that Cas reached out to him and Dean screwed it up again. Every damn time, he pushes Cas further away and it hurts like a bitch. “I, uh, I have to go,” he says abruptly and he's at the door in two strides, pulling it wide open into the chill March air.

“We'll, uh, see you at the wedding?” Daphne calls after him.

Dean doesn't answer; he'd rather spend the day in hell. He might give Crowley a call and arrange it.

***

After Dean leaves, Daphne turns to Castiel with one of those appraising looks of hers and he moves away before she can catch his eye, heading back to the living room.

“Steve,” she calls after him. “Are you okay?”

Self-evidently he’s not; he can feel tremors of emotion in his limbs, part anger and part something else – that smoldering ache he doesn’t let himself think about anymore. But he pushes it all down, hides it as best he can, and turns around to take Daphne’s hands in his. “Are _you_ alright?” he says. “I hope he didn’t frighten you.”

“Men like Dean Winchester don’t frighten me.” She squeezes his fingers in hers, then tilts her jaw up, regarding him through tranquil eyes. “May I say something, though? About Dean?”

He'd rather she didn't; he doesn't want to talk about Dean, doesn't want to think about Dean. But he owes Daphne so much he can't deny her this, and perhaps if he can convince her he's okay she'll let the subject drop. So he approximates a smile and says, “If you like.”

There’s a pause while she gathers her thoughts. Daphne is very deliberate in her approach to a problem, calm in the expression of her ideas. She’s the complete opposite of Dean in that regard, with his fiery instinct to jump in with both feet and ask what needs fixing later. Castiel likes that about Daphne, that she’s serene and predictable, that she thinks things through before she acts. She’s a lot like him in that way; he supposes that’s why they’re friends. __

_Fiancés_ , he corrects. They’re more than friends, of course.

“I understand why you told Dean about us,” Daphne says at last. “But I can’t pretend I’m not a little wary around him, after what happened last time.”

“That wasn’t Dean’s fault,” Castiel says. “I was—”

“Yes, I know.” Her hands tighten around his again, her brow drawing down into lines of sympathy. “The demons had stolen your memory and Dean needed your help to save his brother. I understand that.”

Castiel just nods in tacit agreement to the half-truth. He’d told Daphne enough that she understood something of the life he'd led, but not everything. That was impossible.

“I don't blame him for that, Steve, but I do blame him for causing you so much pain.”

Castiel swallows. This was one thing he wished she didn't know, especially now. But he'd been very low when she’d first found him, bewildered and battered by the world, and Daphne had been the first person he'd felt he could trust since Dean had turned him out into the cold. So it had all come spilling out in a humiliating scene at her kitchen table. The only saving grace was that Dean hadn't been there to witness the painful, wrenching sobs that had felt so hopelessly human.

But Daphne had seen it all, had sat there and listened to his half-true story, and offered no judgment, no shock, nothing but a box of Kleenex and a comforting hand on his shoulder.

So while Daphne might not know everything, might not know his true name or his true nature, she knew more than anyone else in the world about how profoundly Dean had hurt him. And in this moment, that feels more frightening than anything else she might know about him.

“It was brave of you to contact him,” she says, looking into his eyes. “I see now that his friendship is important to you, that he is—” She breaks off, looks down at their joined hands. “You should be careful. Dean Winchester is a dangerous man.”

“I know,” Castiel says, letting his anger seep through the other feelings, letting it steel him against this new hurt. “He came here to kill you, Daphne. He came into your home armed.” 

She rubs a thumb over his knuckles. “ _Our_ home,” she corrects him gently. 

He wants to pull out of her hands because it doesn’t feel like his home and he knows that it should, but she's being so gentle it feels churlish to be angry. Besides, it's not Daphne he's angry with. “He didn't trust me,” he says, aware that his voice has something of its old growl. “He thinks I'm useless – a 'baby in a trench coat'.” Daphne blinks at that; she doesn't understand the reference, of course. “Helpless,” Castiel explains with a sigh. “To Dean, I'm just another problem to fix.”

“Either that,” she says mildly, “or you're a friend.”

Castiel huffs, presses his lips together. “Dean only has useful friends.”

“And yet you told him about the wedding,” Daphne pushes. “Perhaps you would have been happier if you’d parted as friends today?”

Irritated, he pulls his hands free from hers and turns his back on her. On the table he sees the cups of tea cooling and something clenches in the center of his chest. “I—” He swallows. “No. This was a mistake. I know what Dean is and I was foolish to think anything could have changed.”

Daphne is silent for a moment, and then he feels her hand on his back, between his shoulder blades. “We can all be agents of change in our own lives, Steve.”

He nods, but doesn't agree; the sentiment is trite. Dean is a force of nature, unique, unbridled. Even as an angel of the Lord, Castiel couldn't change Dean’s course. How could it ever be possible as a human? He looks at the cooling tea, feeling cold himself, and says, “If you don't mind, I think I'd like to be alone for a while.”

Daphne's hand falls away. “Okay,” she says and he can feel her disappointment. “Then I’m going to take a bath.”

He just nods, feeling guilty, like he's letting her down, but unable to do anything else. He can't be the 'Steve' she wants right now; he needs time to think. “Thank you,” he says for lack of anything better. “Thank you for understanding.”

She smiles. “We can make dinner together later?”

“I'd like that,” he says – a white lie. “Thank you, Daphne.”

He spends a lot of time thanking Daphne. 

***

Dean doesn't even make it out of Aurora before the need for a drink beats out the need to drive fast. He finds a motel just before he hits I-70 with a conveniently located liquor store in the tacky little strip mall opposite. There's a pizza place too, so he stocks up on grease and a bottle of Jack and stares blindly at the TV for a good half hour.

It's not until he's full and somewhat buzzed that he glances down at the three missed calls and five texts from Sam and calls him back.

“At last,” Sam says after the phone's rung once. “Everything okay?”

 _No_ , Dean wants to say. _Everything is a complete fucking disaster._ The words are on the tip of his tongue and he has to press his fingers into the bridge of his nose to keep from saying them out loud. “Sure,” he says eventually. “Fine.”

“So?” Sam presses. “Was Daphne...?” He lets it hang, giving Dean enough rope to do the rest for himself. 

“Human,” he says with a sigh.

“Ah.” To his credit, Sam doesn't add _I told you so_ , although it's heavily implied in the tone. 

“She could be a witch,” Dean says. “I haven't checked that out yet.”

There's a pause, then Sam says, “Do you _think_ she's a witch, Dean?”

“She could be.”

“Did you see any evidence—?”

“They were holding hands!” he blurts. “It was...” He slumps down the bed, hand over his eyes. “They're living in some kind of freakin' show home, Sam. Holding hands. And...smiling. At each other.”

Another weighty pause follows before Sam says, “Not exactly evidence of witchcraft.”

“It's something,” Dean growls.

“Yeah,” Sam agrees. “Happiness, maybe? Contentment. You know, normal stuff.”

“Cas is better than normal,” Dean says. “He's—” Whiskey-fueled images flash into his mind: Cas as he once was, blazing with power, wings like great shadows at his back, defying Heaven and Hell, and intent, so intent on _him_ , on Dean. He has to swallow the sudden lump in his throat. “He's more than that, Sam. You know he is.”

“He _was_ ,” Sam says gently, sarcasm falling away. “But he's just a man, now, Dean, and he's entitled to a life. A normal, happy life. He's earned it.”

It must be the whiskey, because that lump’s not leaving his throat no matter how much he swallows. “I screwed up, Sammy,” he says into the gloom of the motel room. 

“Dean,” Sam says warily. “What did you do?”

“I— Cas kinda guessed why I was there. He was pissed.”

“Crap,” says Sam. “I told you—”

“I know, okay? I said I screwed up. I'm freakin’ confessing, already.”

Sam grumbles, “I'm not a priest.”

“Anyway, turns out 'Daphne' already knew.” He's not sure why he's putting air quotes around her name. “Cas said he's told her everything.”

“Everything?”

“That's what he said.”

“Wow, he must really trust her.”

“Yeah.” Which kinda makes Dean sick to his stomach because _he's_ the one Cas trusts, not some skanky Colorado housewife. 

Not that she was skanky. She was actually kinda cute. They were kinda cute together, which makes him screw shut his eyes against a horrible jealous twist in the pit of his belly.

“Well,” Sam says, “at least you didn't have to test her, right?” Dean's answering silence must have lasted too long because a moment later Sam says, “Dean, tell me you didn't test her anyway.”

“She made me!” he protests. “She told me to do it. So I did. Just to be sure.”

“To be sure,” Sam echoes in a tone of disbelief. “To be sure that Cas isn't an actual moron?”

“Hey—”

“Dean! Come on, really? What were you thinking?”

He can't answer that, because he's not sure he was thinking. It's like there's some other part of him making all the decisions when it comes to Cas, some base part of his brain that's bypassing all his better judgment.

Down the phone, Sam sighs. “So how did you leave it with him?”

He stares at the ceiling, tracing the path of a crack in the plaster as he says, “I didn't.”

“What does that mean?”

“Basically, he told me to fuck off. So I did.”

This time the silence that drifts down the line is epic in length and chill. Dean almost thinks Sam's hung up until, eventually, he says, “You are such a freakin' jerk, Dean.”

“Yeah, thanks for the support.”

“He's your _friend_ ,” Sam presses. “You guys are— You’re like bonded or some shit, brothers in arms.”

“Maybe,” he allows and his mind goes back to every fight they've shared, to that year in Purgatory, to that beautiful certainty that Cas had his back. Gone now, all of it.

“Dean,” Sam snaps. “Cas is family. You don't walk away. Ever.” And then he blows out a breathy sigh and, much more quietly, like he's stepping on eggshells, says, “Even when it hurts, dude.”

And there's so much unspoken understanding in those words, so much empathy for a pain Dean will never acknowledge, that he feels his eyes prick and his throat constrict. _Shit_ , he thinks. _He knows_. 

“You gotta go back,” Sam says. “You gotta make it right, Dean. For Cas and for you. If you walk away from this friendship you'll regret it for the rest of your life.”

“Yeah well,” Dean says, pushing a laugh into his voice, “that ain't gonna be long with Abaddon on our tail.”

“Please, Dean. Even if you can't do it for yourself, do it for Cas. You owe him that much, don't you? After everything.”

He presses his eyes shut and ignores whatever the fuck is trickling down his face and into the hair at his temples. “Yeah,” he says at last. “Yeah, I owe him that much.”

It's like he can almost hear Sam smile, even while his heart is freakin’ breaking. “He probably needs a best man or something. You could offer?”

“Maybe,” Dean says, again with the laugh and the fucking tears. “Guess I’ll need the practice for when it's your turn.”

Sam huffs a laugh down the line. “Yeah, right,” he says, like he’s saying _that's never gonna happen_.

But Dean knows it will. Of course it will. Because one day Dean will end up all alone, just like he always knew he would.

Just like he deserves.


	2. Chapter 2

Castiel wakes early and heads out for his morning run. It’s a new thing, running. But once he’d started living with Daphne, eating food on a regular basis, he’d noticed that he was starting to get a little heavier around the middle, his muscles growing weaker for lack of use.  
Then he’d remembered that Sam used to go running in the mornings, much to Dean’s disgust, and he’d decided to give it a try.

As it turns out, he likes it a lot.

He’s always enjoyed the sunrise, which is unsurprising; he was there for the very first one, after all, and it was spectacular. It unnerves him to think that the number of dawns left to him is finite, that he could count them if he knew how long he had left and that the number wouldn’t be inconceivable. Not knowing which may be his last morning, he wants to make the most of each one and so he goes out early every day and runs toward the sunrise even when it’s hidden behind the clouds. 

He’s been doing this for a couple of months and he runs a little further each day, takes a little more time to enjoy the peace of the early morning. It gives him time to think. The rhythmic pounding of his feet against the pavement, the thump of his racing heart and the drag of breath into his lungs helps his mind find its way to subjects he might otherwise avoid. It’s meditative and he enjoys it – the physical effort, the burn in his chest and legs. The solitude. 

By the time he returns, the sun is above the horizon and Daphne’s on her way out of the house, leaving for work.

“There you are,” she says as she meets him on the porch. “I thought you’d gotten lost or something.”

“Sorry,” he says. “I just sort of kept going...”

She gives him a solemn look, a little wariness in her eyes. “Don’t go too far,” she says, and lifts up onto her tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek. “You might not come back.”

He’s not so obtuse that he misses the root of her concern. He’s disappeared before; he can’t blame her for expecting it to happen again. 

“I’ll call you later,” she adds and trots down the steps to her car. He watches as she drives away and wonders what the curious flatness in his chest means. Daphne is a good, kind woman – she’s cared for him like no one else he’s ever met and he knows he’s lucky to have her in his life. She’s eased great deal of the pain that had drawn Ephraim to Rexford, but there’s nothing there to take its place. Just a numb blankness.

He wonders if that’s normal, if this is how most humans feel. He wonders if this is a normal life.

After Daphne's gone he heads for the shower and spends ten minutes under the water, letting it run as hot as he can stand. It’s an indulgence he hasn’t earned, but he’s tired after a restless night and takes it anyway. He struggles to sleep at the best of times; he hasn’t yet mastered the art of quieting his mind. But last night was worse than usual, his thoughts and dreams crowed with Dean. Happy-angry thoughts that had jolted him awake time after time with a cry of frustration held silent in his throat.

Daphne had slept through it all, still and pristine at his side in the bed they share. It’s unfamiliar, even now, sleeping close to another person. It reminds him of Purgatory, of those long dark nights pressed against Dean for warmth. Odd that he almost misses it, that in a place of punishment he’d felt more alive than he does in this normal human life.

He turns the hot water up a little higher, just to feel the scald on his skin.

He should never have told Dean about Daphne. It was a mistake; Dean doesn’t have ‘normal’ friends, why should he make an exception for Castiel? But he’d let himself hope, drawn on by time and the constant ache of longing in his bones. He doesn’t even know what it is he’s longing for, only that something’s missing. Perhaps it’s his grace, perhaps it’s his celestial home; he suspects it's Dean and that troubles him more than he wants to admit.

That’s why he’s so grateful for Daphne; she’s straightforward and exactly what she appears to be. His feelings for her are clear too – gratitude, admiration, trust. He’s lucky to have her he tells himself again as he turns off the water and steps out of the shower.

Daphne had kept the clothes ‘Emmanuel’ collected over the months he’d been here, so Castiel has quite the selection to choose from. They all feel a little strange though and sometimes he longs for the uncomfortable familiarity of Jimmy Novak’s suit and coat. But they’re long gone and never coming back.

He chooses a t-shirt and a pair of jeans. Since he’s started running, the jeans have become a little loose around the waist, which is irritating. He thinks of Jimmy’s belt and wishes he’d kept it. Once he’s found a job, he decides, a belt will be top of his list of things to buy. 

Daphne likes cardigans; Emmanuel had a number to choose from, all with zippers up the front. Castiel is ashamed that he doesn’t really like how they look, which is vain, or how they make him feel, which is odd. He spent years in one set of clothes without giving it a second thought. In point of fact, his whole body is little more than a set of borrowed clothes. Or _was_ , at any rate. And yet standing there looking at his three cardigans – blue, red, gray – he finds himself thinking of Dean in his flannel shirts and doesn’t want to zip himself into a scratchy wool cardigan. Instead, and for no reason he can adequately explain, he digs out the red hoodie he stole from the laundromat in the days after he fell. Perhaps it reminds him of the road, or of the life he’s left behind, but when he slips it on he feels more like himself again.

Whoever that is.

He tugs on socks, because it’s cold, and heads down to the kitchen. Daphne is a ‘healthy eater’ – which means breakfast is a somewhat unappetizing combination of seeds, grains, dried fruit and nuts called ‘granola’. Not that he’s complaining. He knows what it is to be hungry and he’s honestly grateful for every meal he eats. It’s just that sometimes he remembers the scent of pancakes and syrup, of bacon cheeseburgers, and it makes him feel...warm.

He’s just reaching for the granola when the doorbell rings.

Daphne does a lot of ‘online shopping’ so they often get deliveries and Castiel scrubs his fingers through his damp hair, trying to make himself look presentable, before he pulls open the door to the deliveryman.

Except it’s not a deliveryman.

It’s Dean Winchester, incongruously holding a bunch of flowers.

“Oh,” Dean says.

Castiel’s stomach takes a swooping dive and all he can do is stare in confused surprise until Dean frowns and drops the flowers to his side. “These aren’t for you, dude,” he says, a slight flush tinting his cheek bones. “They’re for Daphne.”

“Daphne?” Castiel says, because he’s genuinely nonplussed.

“To say sorry for being a jerk yesterday.” Dean runs a finger around the back of his collar. “Um, she home?”

“No,” he says, struggling to find his feet. “Daphne’s at work. She’s a hydrotherapist.”

Dean says, “Right. Figures.”

Castiel doesn’t know what that means, can’t explain why Dean is still in Aurora and not back home in Kansas. “Did your car break down?” he ventures, as a possible explanation. 

“What? No.” Dean sounds affronted. Then he sighs. “Look, uh, I owe you an apology too, man.” He flicks his gaze back to Castiel and away again. “I shouldn’t have come barging in like that, guns blazing.”

“No,” Castiel agrees. He’s still wary, but of course he can never stay angry with Dean for long enough. 

“So, uh, I’m sorry,” Dean says, tapping the flowers against his leg and sending a few bright petals drifting down onto the wooden boards of the porch. He’s wearing a red shirt under his jacket and it’s the most vivid thing Castiel can see against the gray backdrop of the winter sky. “I, uh,” Dean says, awkward, “I hope we can still be—” He clears his throat, mutters something under his breath, and then says, “Dude, you eaten breakfast yet?”

“Um.” Castiel thinks about the granola waiting for him in the kitchen. “No.”

“Awesome,” Dean says with a grin. “Let’s go get pancakes.”

Castiel stares for a moment, hears the warning voices telling him this will only make things worse when Dean leaves again. He wills himself to listen to them. “I—I don’t really have any money, Dean. I haven’t found a job yet.” 

Dean waves that away with one hand. “I’ll buy you breakfast, dude. Least I can do.”

He hesitates another moment, looking past Dean to the distant mountains and the pale sky. Not so long ago he could have been standing on those peaks in a heartbeat, clearing his head in the icy air. Now he can do nothing but look, confused by the wary anxiety churning in his stomach at the thought of sharing breakfast with Dean.

 _Well, this is going to hurt,_ the voice in his head tells him. It sounds like Metatron, like Crowley, like Naomi. _Castiel, when will you learn?_

He ignores it and says, “Come in while I find my boots.”

For some reason, that makes Dean laugh as he follows him inside. It’s not an unkind laugh, though, it’s almost fond, but it’s followed by such a heavy sigh that Castiel looks back over his shoulder. Dean’s just gazing around him, though, his expression neutral. “It’s, uh, it’s a nice house,” he says when he catches Castiel watching. “Tidy.”

“Yes, Daphne is a very organized person.” He opens the hall closet and retrieves his boots. “It makes things easier to find, which is good – there’s so much to keep track of as a human, isn’t there?”

“I dunno. I guess.” 

“Clothes, shoes, keys, food – not to mention bathroom items, cooking implements, books, phones.” He sighs. “It’s a lot to think about.”

When he closes the closet door, Dean’s leaning in the doorway to the kitchen, still holding the flowers down by his knee like he’s forgotten they’re there. His eyes are fixed on Castiel, studying him. “How much do you remember?” he says quietly. “All that stuff you knew about the world.” He taps his head. “That still up there?”

The question runs like cold water down his spine, taking his thoughts to places he mostly avoids. Despite his bluster, Dean has always been astute. “Yes,” Castiel says, bending to tie his boots, hiding his face in case the pain shows. “Most of it, anyway. Some things are…” He clears his throat, but it’s still tight with emotion. “Some of it is more slippery now. I suppose there are certain concepts the human mind simply can’t comprehend. I— My true form, for example, is difficult to conceive.”

There’s a long beat of silence before Dean says, “You can’t remember what you looked like?” The pity in his voice is almost too much.

Castiel pulls the laces tight, tugging at them angrily. “It’s funny,” he says, and his voice sounds thin and strained. Not funny at all. “I can still speak every human language that’s ever existed, I could tell you what it looks like to watch the sun rise over the surface of Venus, but half the time I forget to take a key when I leave the house and I can never remember to charge my phone. And I don’t— I can’t remember the sound of my Father’s voice.” He stops there, feeling something hot rising up in his chest and his eyes blur where he’s staring at his laces. He blinks, doesn’t know what to do with the feeling.

“I’m sorry, man,” Dean says, his voice rough and close as he grips Castiel’s shoulder, fingers warm through his clothes. Castiel closes his eyes, takes a breath. It helps. Then Dean’s hand is gone and he’s saying, “You got a vase or something I can put these flowers in?”

Cas clears his throat, pushes to his feet. “In truth,” he says, looking around helplessly, “I have no idea.”

In the end Dean finds a pitcher, which he decides is good enough – Castiel takes his word for that – and he half fills it with water and leaves it sitting in the kitchen sink with the flowers inside. “You can give them to Daphne later,” he says. “Remember to say they’re from me. Don’t go claiming the glory.”

He thinks about that. “What glory?”

Dean just rolls his eyes, claps him on the shoulder again and steers him toward the front door. “Let’s go, Romeo, I’m starving.”

***

It’s weird having Cas in the car again, riding shotgun. Especially a Cas wearing jeans and a scruffy hoodie, his hair still damp from the shower and making the whole car smell like girly shampoo. It’s not bad, it’s just weird. And Dean can’t stop glancing over at him, at the way his palm is pressed into the seat, thumb moving like he’s caressing the leather.

“I miss your car,” Cas says. “It’s a beautiful car.”

Dean feels something warm uncoiling in his chest. It makes him smile. “ _She’s_ a beautiful car.”

Cas returns his smile. “Of course,” he says. “Apologies.” It’s the first time Dean’s seen him smile since he got to Colorado. 

They drive on in a silence that should be awkward, but somehow isn’t. They pass an IHOP and a couple of Waffle Houses, but Dean doesn’t stop; he’d rather avoid the chains and, besides, he’s enjoying the drive. That’s what he tells himself, at least. But deep down he knows he’s mostly enjoying the company. 

He wonders what would happen if he just kept driving, if he took Cas home to the bunker and told him to stay. To just… _stay_.

Dumb idea, of course; kidnapping rarely ends well. Besides, Cas is a grownup. He can make his own choices. And he’s chosen Daphne Allen. Dean shifts at the sudden spike of jealousy, rubs at the back of his neck.

“Dean?” Cas is watching him with familiar, narrow-eyed concern. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” he says, forcing a smile. “I’m good.”

“You look troubled.”

He just shakes his head and says, “So – any human language ever spoken, huh?”

Cas lets a beat fall, then turns back to look out the window. “Yes.”

“So say something,” Dean says. “Say something in a language I never heard before.”

Cas huffs out a laugh and after a moment’s thought says, “ _Hujambo_ , Dean. _Habari ya leo_?”

“Cool,” Dean says with a smile. “What was that?”

“Swahili.” 

“Awesome. What did you say?”

“I said ‘Hello, Dean. How are you this morning?’”

“Dude,” he says, “you’d be awesome to take on vacation – you know, if I ever took vacations.”

Cas smiles, the expression fleeting but warm. “It would be interesting to take a vacation someday,” he says. “I’ve never been on an airplane.”

Dean shudders at that, less because the idea of flying makes his skin crawl and more because it feels like they’re a couple seconds away from Cas discussing his honeymoon plans – and the thought of listening to _that_ is about ten thousand times worse than the thought of getting on a plane. “So what about something really old?” Dean says, diverting the subject back. “Like Latin, only not Latin. You know, one nobody speaks anymore.”

“Nobody speaks Latin anymore,” Cas points out and Dean can hear the humor in his voice, the dry tone of it that he’s missed _so damn much_. It makes him laugh out loud, earning a surprised smile from Cas.

Dean just shakes his head and keeps smiling, even though it hurts a little. “Go on,” he says, “something old.”

Cas considers for a long time, then in a soft voice says “ _Mutin saga mulu kigga aggu, hilizu agse baam la lam kukuda_.”

There's something about the way he says it, the heat in that smoke-scarred voice of his that raises goose flesh on Dean's arms. He swallows, pushes the feelings down deep; Cas is getting _married_ , for fuck's sake. “Cool,” he says, hoping he sounds it. “What was it?”

“Sumerian. One of Earth's oldest languages.”

“What did you say?”

Cas is silent for another long moment, Dean can hear the rise and fall of his breath. “I said...” He looks at Dean, then away. “I said 'I'm hungry. Where are the pancakes?'”

“You did not!” Dean objects with a laugh, then gives Cas a dubious look. “Did you? No, they didn't have pancakes back then.”

Cas just tilts his head, one eyebrow raised as if to say, _What do you think?_

“Shut up,” Dean says, but he's still smiling as he spies a diner that looks more their style and pulls into the mostly empty lot.

It’s quiet inside, the breakfast rush long past, and the waitress greets them with an easy smile as she shows them to a booth by the window. “What can I get you boys?”

Dean orders coffee, a stack of pancakes and a side of bacon. 

Cas says, “Same again please,” and smiles as he hands the waitress his menu. Dean doesn’t miss her answering grin, all sweet and fond. Cas does that to people, they respond to his innate kindness – when he’s not smiting the hell out of them. Kind, decent and deadly; Cas always was a walking contradiction. 

Once the waitress has brought their coffee, they fall into another silence. But there’s no driving, no passing scenery to distract them now, and it grows intense. Cas sips his coffee, hands wrapped around the mug like he’s cold. His hair’s dried every which way and he looks like he needs a shave, the ratty hoodie only adding to the rumpled effect. It makes Dean want to— To just really, really hug him. Or something. He looks away and swallows a mouthful of too-hot coffee.

“You know,” he says, for the sake of saying something, “you could use that, all those languages, to get a job. Translator, or something.”

Cas looks up at him, as if he'd been miles away and is just waking up. “A translator?”

“Yeah, like in business or government or whatever. Or the police, maybe?”

He tips his head, considering. “I hadn't thought of that.”

“Dude, you must have a shit-ton of saleable skills. You could make a fortune.”

Cas gives a half smile. “I don't think I want to make a fortune,” he says. “I'd rather do something useful. Like you do.”

At which point the waitress shows up with their food – which, objectively speaking, smells and looks amazing. Cas tucks in with gusto and it's weird seeing him eat so hungrily; it brings home his vulnerability all the more. 

“You like that, huh?” Dean says, watching him over a forkful of his own food.

“Mmm,” Cas nods. “Empty calories are delicious.”

Dean wonders where the hell he learned 'empty calories' – Daphne, he supposes. “You don't get to eat real food that often?”

“If you mean pancakes or burgers, no,” Cas says, taking a pause to sip his coffee. “Daphne doesn't approve.”

Dean takes another mouthful and levels his empty fork at Cas. “Don't mean you can't, though, dude. She's not your keeper.”

Cas concedes the point with a tip of his head. “Perhaps when I find a job...” But he trails off without enthusiasm. Dean can relate. For all the blood and sweat of his own job, he wouldn't trade it for a nine-to-five. He can't see Cas as a wage-slave either, and that only needles his guilt over this whole messed-up situation. “You, ah,” he says, knowing it's a bad idea even before he says it, “you could still hunt, you know. If you want to.”

Cas looks up, a forkful of pancake paused mid-air. The expression on his face is halfway between hopeful and despairing. “I don't think I have the talent for it.”

“Dude,” Dean says, pushing his own plate to one side so he can lean forward across the table, “if at first you don't succeed...”

Cas holds his gaze, his expression that same earnest honesty that first drew Dean in. Slowly he lowers the fork to his plate. “I have tried,” he says, and his gaze drops, embarrassed. “After you— After we parted in Rexford, I—” He shakes his head. “You'll call me an idiot,” he says with a small smile. “But I didn't want to take your advice at first.”

Dean blinks, blank. “What advice?”

“To give up this work and live a normal life,” Cas says and looks surprised that Dean's forgotten. “It was hubris, I suppose, left over from my time as an—” He glances around the empty diner, lowers his voice. “I found a case in Arkansas. It sounded like vampires.”

And now Dean's staring, he can feel his eyes prick for lack of blinking, but he can't look away. “You went after a nest of vamps _alone_?”

“I didn't know it was a nest.”

“It's _always_ a nest!”

Cas shrugs, his breakfast forgotten. “Well, I know that _now_.” 

Something squirms in the pit of Dean's belly. It's fear. This scares the crap out of him. “You're an idiot,” he says, taking a mouthful of coffee to wash away the bitter tang. 

Cas allows it with a shrug and turns to look out the window. “Told you.”

“Okay,” Dean says, and takes a moment to remember that Cas is alive so obviously it didn't go completely to shit. “What happened? Turned out to be some _Twilight_ wannabe?”

Cas's gaze swings back to him, level and difficult to read. For a moment they just look at each other. Then Cas reaches up and tugs at the collar of his t-shirt, pulling it down to reveal his collarbone and the angry red scar bitten into the skin where his neck meets his shoulder.

“Fuck,” Dean says as his gut plummets to his toes. “ _Fuck_ , Cas.”

“Yes,” Cas says and lets his shirt go. “So. I learned a lesson.”

“You _idiot_ ,” Dean snaps, and he's angry because _fuck_. “How did you even get out alive?”

Cas picks up his fork, prods at the remains of his pancakes, swirling a piece through the flood of syrup he'd poured over the stack. “I still have my angel blade,” he says. “And I have several millennia of experience in soldiering.” He looks up, his blue gaze steady. “I killed the vampires.”

Which so isn't the whole story. “And?” Dean prompts, without much patience.

Cas lets out a breath, looks out the window again. “And when the police found the bodies they found me too. I suppose I looked like another victim.”

Dean closes his eyes for a moment because he knows exactly what Cas isn't saying; if the cops hadn't shown up he'd have bled out into the dirt and Dean would never have seen him again. He’d probably never have even known he was dead. His hands are cold where they're resting on the table and without thought he reaches out to grab Cas's wrist. “Never,” he says in a harsh whisper, “do anything like that again.” 

Startled, Cas stares at Dean's hand on his arm. “I—” He clears his throat and with some apparent effort looks up at Dean. “Like I said, I don't have a talent for hunting.”

“Are you kidding? You killed a nest of vamps, that's pretty good going for a rookie. But what you don't ever do is go in alone, Cas. Jesus, you should know that with your ‘millennia of soldiering’ or whatever.”

With a flash of irritation, Cas pulls his wrist out of Dean's grip. “I _was_ alone, Dean. I had no choice.”

“You could have died!”

“I didn't think—” He cuts himself short, his expression one hundred percent old-school Castiel. “At the time, it didn't feel important. It’s not like anyone would have _known_.” His gaze flicks back to the window. “Or cared.”

Dean looks at him in disbelief, the thin morning light only accentuating the stark lines of Cas’s face. Anger, irritation, guilt – they weave together into a hard knot inside Dean’s chest. “You know what?” he growls, low so the waitress can't hear, “Screw that.” Startled, Cas looks up as Dean stands and slaps a couple of bills on the table. “And screw you, Cas.” 

“Dean—”

Ignoring him, Dean stalks to the door and out into the morning chill. His heart’s pounding hard against his ribs and he doesn’t even know why. Because Cas nearly died? Because he thought no one would have cared? Or because Cas knows that’s a fucking lie but spat it out anyway, like he’s hurting and bitter and wants to lash out?

The cold slaps his face and he sucks in a couple of deep breaths, trying to calm the angry hammering in his chest. Across the parking lot the Impala sits beneath heavy skies and the urge to just get in and drive, to put this whole fucking mess behind him, is urgent. It’s hard enough to deal with all the Daphne crap, but if Cas wants to play the smoking martyr too then screw him, screw—

“Dean, wait.”

He closes his eyes, feels his treacherous heart skip at the note of command in Cas’s voice. Reluctant, he turns to find Cas watching him from just outside the diner, all tousled frustration and— _Fuck him_. He's the one getting married; he's the one _leaving_. Dean holds onto his anger, lets it steady his voice into a growl. “You really believe I wouldn't have cared if you _died_ , Cas? Is that what you think of me?”

Cas fixes him with a level look, unapologetic. Dean can almost imagine the shadow of wings behind him, bristling and indignant. “I have never, in my whole existence, needed a friend more than when I fell. You were all I had, Dean, and you—” His voice cracks. “Well. What was I supposed to think?”

“You were supposed to trust me.”

Cas looks incredulous. “To do _what_?”

“To have reasons!” 

His eyes narrow in irritation, head tilts. “What reasons?”

And that’s the question, that’s the whole fucking question. Dean rubs a hand over his mouth, chilled by the cold wind and the sleety drizzle, tired from the long night wrestling with his regrets. Exhausted from the ache he’s been carrying around in his chest for _months_. His shoulders slump, all the fight seeping out of him; the answer to Cas’s question can only make things worse, but he’s got nothing but the truth left to give him. And, at this point, absolutely nothing left to lose. Cas has already gone.

“Dean?” Cas has his hands in the pockets of his hoodie as he walks closer, all that angelic indignation dissipating into his usual concern. It only makes Dean feel worse.

He swallows, mans up and says, “Sam.”

Cas stills, his expression flattening. “I don’t understand.”

“Sam was—” He takes a step closer, lowers his voice and explains the whole shitty story as fast as he can. It boils down to this: _Sam was in trouble and I did something dumb to save him, then everyone else paid the price_. Same old same old.

When he’s done, bones cold as the sleet, he waits. 

After a while Cas says, “I’m sorry to hear about Kevin.”

Dean nods, but he can’t talk about that yet. “Another spectacular Winchester fuck-up, huh?”

Cas takes a breath, it clouds around his face as he sighs. “You were protecting your brother,” he says. “It’s what you do, Dean.”

He gazes down at his boots, at the wet line where the slush has marked them. “It’s what I am,” he says, resigned to that now. It’s all he’ll ever be: Sam’s brother, keeper, guardian. There’s no room in his life to be anything else.

Cas puts a firm hand on his shoulder, drawing Dean’s eyes back up. He almost crumples at Cas’s steady compassion, the warmth he’s missed so freakin’ much. “I hope,” Cas says, “that you also consider yourself my friend.”

“Yeah,” he says in a rough voice. “Of course.”

And then there’s that half-smile, the one that makes Dean’s stomach flutter. “Good,” Cas says, fingers tightening a fraction on his shoulder before he lets go. “That’s good.”

It’s like the weight of the world is lifting from his shoulders, like months of tension are unraveling. “Yeah?” he says with a smile of his own. He's not sure he can really believe Cas is forgiving him.

But Cas just gives a brief, self-conscious grin. “Yes,” he says. “That's very good.”

His eyes are bright with a smile Dean hasn’t seen in _years_ , his hair is damp and curling in the misty rain, and Dean feels a little punchy. That’s probably why he reaches out and pushes his fingers through Cas’s hair, tousling it away from his forehead. “Dude,” he says, and then catches Cas’s startled gaze and stops dead. For an awkward beat they just stare at each other like freakin’ deer in headlights, unblinking.

Dean looks away first, clears his throat as he shoves his hand into his pocket. “You, uh, you need to get yourself a hat, man, if you’re living here.”

Cas lifts fingers to his hair, exactly where Dean had touched it. His cheeks are a little flushed. Probably from the cold, Dean thinks. “Yes,” Cas says. “Good idea.”

Which is why they wind up in a camping store on the way back to Daphne’s house, with Dean forcing Cas to try on any number of ridiculous hats before settling on a blue woolen beanie. Dean determinedly doesn’t notice the way it heightens the color in Cas’s eyes and Cas looks at the thing like it’s some kind of treasure as they leave the store.

“When I get a job I’ll pay you—” He begins as Dean puts away his wallet on the way back to the car.

“Dude. It’s a fraudulent credit card.”

Cas lifts an eyebrow. “So this is a proceed of crime?”

“Yup,” Dean says with a grin as he slips into the driver’s seat. “Don’t tell Daph.”

It’s past noon by the time Dean pulls up outside Daphne’s house, letting the engine idle as he turns to face Cas. He’s turning the hat over and over in his hands, his pensive gaze directed out the passenger window. If Dean didn’t know better, he’d think Cas was avoiding looking at the house. 

“So,” Dean says.

Cas nods, sighs. “So.” He turns to look at Dean, offers a smile. “Thank you, Dean.”

“Least I could do,” Dean says, and they both know they’re not just talking about breakfast. What hangs between them now, in the silence of the car, is the question, what next? 

The wedding’s not for months, Dean has no reason to stay or come back until then, and yet he doesn’t want to draw a line under this. But Cas is out of the business, he’s not part of Dean’s hunting life, and he doesn’t know how to have friends who aren’t comrades in arms. And it twists his chest to think that Cas isn’t that anymore, that he’s no longer part of that life.

“If,” Cas says, diffident in the way he’s become since the fall – since before that, perhaps – “if I can ever be of any use to you or Sam… I know it’s unlikely, but if you think I could help then I hope you’ll call?”

“Bet on it,” Dean says, because _that_ he can do. “Hey, you could be the new Bobby.”

Cas looks stricken, turns away with a scant nod because, of course, Bobby was killed by the Leviathan Cas released into the world. 

Dean closes his eyes, silently curses the weight of crap that’s still between them. “Not your fault,” he says.

“That’s not true,” Cas says with a sideways look. “And you know it.”

“It’s in the past, man. You gotta move on.”

“Is that what you do, when you make mistakes?”

Dean gives him a flat smile and holds out his hand. “Give me your phone,” he says, forcing the conversation onto another tack because this one’s going nowhere.

Cas stares for a moment, like it’s taken time to shift gears. “My phone?”

“Yeah.” He makes an impatient gesture with his fingers. “Give it here.”

Cas pulls his phone out of his pocket, hands it over. “Dude, you need to charge this thing,” Dean says, frowning as he pulls up Cas’s contacts – of which he has precisely one: Daphne. He lifts an eyebrow but doesn’t comment, just adds all his and Sam’s numbers, Jodie and Charlie. And Garth – just in case. “Okay,” he says and hands it back. “Text me so I have your number.”

For a cold moment he thinks Cas won’t do it. He just sits there staring at his phone like an alcoholic looking at that first drink before he falls off the wagon. Dean swallows. “Listen, I get it if you don’t want—”

“No,” Cas says, determined. “I do want.” He taps away and a moment later Dean’s phone buzzes in his pocket. The text says: _Hello Dean._

Of course. He smiles around a warm swell in his chest and adds Cas’s new number to his contacts. “So, you’ll keep in touch?” Dean says as he pockets his phone. “Let me know how you’re doing? And if anything…” He shifts around, props one arm over the back of the seat, his hand just inches from the warmth of Cas’s shoulder. “If you need anything, call, okay? I mean it. If those dick angels show up—” He has to press his mouth flat at the memory of the Reaper sliding her blade into Cas’s chest, of Ephraim standing over him ready to strike. “If you call, I’ll come. Okay?”

Cas just nods, human and overwhelmed in a way he never was before he fell. It makes Dean ache to see him like this, so reduced. But then he remembers his smoldering anger in the parking lot and reminds himself that Cas is riding the world’s biggest fucking emotional rollercoaster right now. Dean’s had thirty-six years to try and figure this shit out and Cas has only been human for a couple of months. It’s no surprise he’s up and down like a freakin’ teenager. 

“You’ll be okay,” he says, and gives his cheek a pat. His skin is warm, a little stubbled, and Dean maybe lets his hand linger a fraction of a second too long. 

Long enough for Cas to meet his gaze and hold it. “This means—” he says. “Your friendship means a lot to me, Dean. Thank you.”

Curling his fingers away from Cas, Dean sets his hand on the back of the seat again. “Don’t thank me. I mean—You know, back atcha.”

Cas gives a slight nod. “We’ve been through a lot together, Dean. It felt wrong to be estranged.”

“Yeah.”

“Daphne was right,” he adds. “I do feel happier now we’re parting as friends.”

Her name is like a bucket of ice water, killing the moment. “Daphne said that?”

“She’s very wise,” Cas confesses. 

“Great.” And Dean knows his voice sounds brittle and hopes Cas doesn’t notice; it’s not his fault the green-eyed-monster’s got him by the balls. He clears his throat. “Listen, I’d better hit the road.”

“Of course,” Cas says and reaches for the passenger door like he’s afraid of overstaying his welcome. “Um, tell Sam I said ‘hi’?”

“Will do,” Dean says, flexing his fingers on the steering wheel and willing away the memory of Cas’s skin under his palm. Some things you can’t have no matter how bad you want them, and that’s just how the damn world turns.

And then the door’s closed, Dean’s pulling away from the curb, and Cas is just a figure in his rearview mirror watching him leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Sumarian Castiel speaks is a rough transliteration of this ancient Sumarian love poem: 
> 
> _Man of my Heart_
> 
> "Man of my heart, my beloved man,  
> your allure is a sweet thing, as sweet as honey."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: this chapter contains a brief mention of past suicidal thoughts.

Sometimes Castiel wonders about sex.

Not the mechanics of it, of course. He knows how it works and enjoyed it the couple of times he had the opportunity – despite the unexpectedly fatal aftermath.

But he wonders about Daphne and sex, specifically the lack of it in their relationship. Not that he really minds the absence. That is, his human body is insistent in its desires but he doesn’t feel especially drawn to Daphne in that way and he assumes the feeling is mutual, which, even with his limited experience of human relationships, feels unusual given that they’re preparing for marriage. But then it was the same when he lived with her as ‘Emmanuel’.

He’s asked her about it, of course, and she just smiles and touches his face and says, “You wait.” And when he asks what they’re waiting for, she says, “You’ll understand when it happens.”

And that’s no help at all.

But he’s lived millennia as an asexual being and, the non-specific yearnings of his human body aside, the lack doesn't trouble him in the way it would probably trouble other people. Dean, for example.

Not that he thinks about Dean with regard to sex – exactly. (Although he’s certain that Dean takes great pleasure in the act, that he’s capable of giving great pleasure.) It’s just that he thinks about Dean often, Dean and the life that was his back when he had purpose and meaning beyond the endless hunt for a job, the endless upkeep of his human body.

His life now is calm, predictable. Small.

Which is probably why he started texting Dean so frequently; even that brief contact sparks color into his monotone days and he can’t resist it. They don’t share anything profound; Castiel mostly sends his observations, questions and thoughts about human life. Dean replies with his own brand of wisdom that always makes Castiel smile.

This morning, for example, after slipping on a patch of black ice while out running, Castiel had texted a photo of his damaged knees and written: _When they think of Lucifer at all, most people imagine fire and brimstone. But in fact ice is the real work of the Devil._

Dean had replied with: _you need to go someplace warmer._

To which Castiel had responded with a brief description of how early humans had, in fact, been migratory and a suggestion that modern humans could be the same if only they weren’t so obsessed with arbitrary national boundaries.

Dean hadn’t replied.

That had been several hours ago and it’s somewhat pitiable how often Castiel has checked his phone for messages in the intervening hours. It’s unusual for Dean not to reply, even with nothing more than a _dork_ or _shut up_ and so he is concerned.

Of course there are a hundred perfectly innocuous explanations for Dean’s silence, but still. Castiel has little else to do but think up terrible scenarios, distracting himself from the tedious task of applying for jobs online.

After checking his phone for the hundredth time, he deliberately turns it over and forces himself to tackle the next question on his current application: ‘Describe a time when you’ve overcome a challenge’.

 _Well_ , he thinks, _where to begin_?

Fortunately he’s distracted again, this time by a rap on the door. To his fizzing surprise he finds Dean standing on the porch carrying two coffees and a box of donuts. “Hey,” he grins. “I bought empty calories.”

Castiel can’t fight his delighted smile. “Hello Dean,” he says. “It’s very good to see you.”

“Yeah.” Dean’s smile softens. “You too.” And then something makes him awkward, because he frowns, clears his throat and peers past Cas. “Uh, I assume Daph’s at work?”

“Yes,” Castiel says, and doesn’t miss the flutter of relief that crosses Dean’s face. He supposes Dean feels awkward around Daphne after their previous encounter. “She liked the flowers,” he says, to reassure him as he steps back and invites Dean inside. “She said it was thoughtful of you.”

“Right, good,” Dean says with a quick, flat smile that falls short of his eyes. “So—” He hands over one of the coffees. “Cream and two sugars, right? Which, by the way, is gross.”

Castiel lifts an eyebrow. “I find it comforting,” he says, and wraps his hands around the cup. Daphne doesn’t drink coffee. She prefers tea in the morning and has a collection of different varieties of mineral water in the refrigerator, but despite her best attempts Castiel can’t tell the difference between any of them. He puts it down to his newly human status; so many tastes, sensations and feelings are new it’s difficult for him to discern the subtleties of different types of water. Basically it’s all just hydrogen and oxygen.

“What are you doing?” Dean says as he heads into the kitchen to where Castiel has the laptop open on the table. It’s a large room, but Dean seems to fill it with his presence and the cold outdoorsy tang he’s carried inside. Despite his lack of grace, Castiel still finds himself drawn to Dean at an atavistic level. He might not be able to sense his soul anymore – and he feels that loss intensely – but it doesn’t mean the bond is broken. The urge to touch, to connect with Dean is as strong as ever despite the fact that his ability to make the connection has been lost. It’s a painful irony, one among many, which only makes the loss more frustrating.

“Security guard?” Dean says, glancing up from the laptop. “Are you serious?”

Stung, Castiel closes the lid of the computer. It’s humiliating enough without Dean pointing it out. “It’s a difficult job market for someone with little relevant experience and no references.”

Dean purses his lips but doesn’t answer, instead he takes a seat at the table and shucks off his jacket. He’s wearing one of the Winchester’s ubiquitous flannel shirts and Castiel is, again, self-conscious in ‘Emmanuel’s’ zip-up cardigan. Awkward, he runs a hand through his hair and sits down, taking a seat opposite Dean.

“So.” Dean pushes the box of donuts toward him and takes one for himself. “How are the knees?”

Castiel smiles, rueful. “Quite painful, actually. But I think my pride was more damaged; it was an undignified landing.”

Dean laughs, smiling around a mouthful of donut. “Wish I’d seen that.”

He has sugar on his lips and Castiel feels an improper stirring of human desire – an impulse to taste the sugar on Dean’s lips. Uncomfortable, he looks away and helps himself to a donut instead. “I’m glad you didn’t see it,” he admits, taking a bite and licking the sugar from his own lips instead. “It was rather embarrassing.”

Dean clears his throat and when Castiel looks up Dean’s gaze is sliding away. “Yeah,” he says and reaches for his coffee like he’s regrouping. After a beat, Dean clears his throat again. “So. I wasn’t kidding, dude, about heading someplace warmer.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m freezing my balls off in Kansas too,” he explains. “So how about we head south for a few days?”

Castiel just stares at him, unsure what he’s suggesting. “Head south?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, like it’s no big deal. But Castiel knows Dean Winchester and he can see the tense set of his shoulders, the nervous tap of his fingers against his coffee cup. “You know, only if you want to. There’s a case— Sam’s busy and I could use a hand, if you’ve got time.”

He’s still not used to the way his heartrate accelerates without warning, the way it leaves him breathless. His face feels hot, like he’s flushed, and his mouth is smiling of its own volition.

“Yeah?” Dean’s smiling too now. “You interested?”

“That sounds…very appealing, actually.”

“Cool.” Dean flashes a grin. “That’s… Yeah. It’ll be awesome.” He jerks his chin toward the upstairs. “You wanna go change and pack a bag? I figure we’ll be a couple nights on the road.” Dean narrows his eyes at Castiel’s blue cardigan. “Do you have, you know, _other_ clothes?”

He brushes a hand over the scratchy wool. “Daphne likes sweaters.”

Dean’s eyebrows rise. “Okay, well, you can’t hunt dressed like Mr. Rogers.”

“I don’t see how my clothes would affect my ability to hunt.”

“Dude,” Dean says, pressing his hands flat to the tabletop and pushing himself to his feet. “You just gotta look…more threatening. Know what I mean?”

“No,” he says, arms folded stubbornly. “Not really.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but it’s a fond expression that makes something inside Castiel unfurl like a leaf in sunshine. “Come on,” Dean says. “We’re going shopping.”

***

“There are so many choices,” Cas says with a shake of his head as they wander the aisles of WalMart. “I had no idea.”

Dean smiles despite himself. “I figure you need a couple more t-shirts, a couple of warmer over-shirts. You got a jacket?”

“This one,” he says, lifting his arm in the crappy blue thing he’s wearing. It looks like it would barely keep out a summer shower.

“Right,” Dean says. “Jacket too.”

Cas stops him, a hand on his wrist. “Dean, no. You can’t buy all of that for me. It’s too much.”

Frustrated, Dean lets out a breath and lowers his voice. “It’s not my money, Cas. Remember?”

His eyes narrow, steely. “Then it’s _theft_ , Dean. It’s wrong.”

“Now you sound like Sammy,” he says. “Plus, how do you think we’ve been paying for all your motel rooms and burgers the last few years? C’mon, man, you’re already corrupted. You just gotta own it.”

Brow furrowing, Cas shakes his head. “I may be ‘corrupted’, as you call it, but I—”

“Dude, lighten up,” Dean says, shoving him forward with a gentle push, leaving his hand on his shoulder as he steers them towards the men’s clothes. “It’s not like we’re at Bloomingdales. Besides, you’re putting your life on the line for humanity. They owe you.”

Cas makes a short noise in the back of his throat, a huff of disapproval. “Humanity owes me nothing,” he says. “Quite the opposite, in fact.”

“You kidding me?” And his hand’s still on Cas’s shoulder, fingers firming into the solid feel of muscle and bone. “You saved the world, Cas.”

“I nearly destroyed it.”

“Yeah, well, so did I.” He stops Cas, hustles him toward a quiet corner between the shirts and the t-shirts. “Cas,” he says, when they’re face-to-face, “you deserve to have a few clothes, man. Not everything’s about the cosmic balance of the freakin’ universe.”

He shakes his head, looks away so he can’t meet Dean’s eyes. “It just feels wrong to concern myself with my own…comfort, when I—” He swallows and Dean watches his throat move, all too aware that his fascination is not entirely appropriate. He makes himself look away, back up to Cas’s averted eyes. “You know what I did on Earth,” Cas murmurs, “you saw the people I slaughtered. But if you could have seen what I did in Heaven…”

Even with his head turned, Dean can see the moisture in Cas's eyes, pain like a knife edge. And he thinks, _Jesus, are we really doing this_ now _? In a freakin' WalMart?_ “Cas,” he says, lower. “Listen. Tell me this, answer this question: what would’ve happened if Raphael had won?”

Cas frowns, dips his head. “I don’t— I should have found a better way.”

“Answer the question. If Raphael had won your war, what would’ve happened? On Earth, in Heaven?”

Cas is silent but Dean can feel the tension leave his shoulders. “It would have been bad,” he concedes.

“Right. It would have been _worse_.”

A slight nod. “Probably. Certainly for Earth.”

“You’d be dead. I’d be dead. Sam would be dead – or Lucifer’s meat-suit, or whatever.”

Another nod. “But, Dean, if I’d trusted you instead of—”

“Yeah, and if I’d _listened_ to you any one of the times you tried to tell me what you were up against? If I’d made your problems my problems instead of the other way around?” He lets out a sigh, deep and bitter. “We all made mistakes, Cas. But at least we were trying to do the right thing.”

“Badly, in my case.”

Irritated, Dean shakes his shoulder. “Hey. Look at me.”

With reluctance, Cas does. “Dean…” he says, but lets it drift off with nothing else to add.

“You won,” Dean reminds him. “Yeah, it wasn’t great. You fucked up some stuff, but you won. You beat Raphael.”

“And unleashed the Leviathan…”

“Yeah, well, they were dicks but nothing we couldn’t handle – not as bad as Raphael restarting the Apocalypse.”

“But Sam—”

“Is fine.” He holds his gaze. “He’s fine, Cas. You cleaned up that mess.”

Again with the turn of his head, looking away as if it’s too hard to meet Dean’s gaze, but this time there’s a small smile along with it and when Cas speaks his voice is jagged with feeling. “That’s— Thank you, Dean. I suppose I’d never thought about it like that.” He looks back at him at last, his smile touching his eyes. “Sometimes you can be remarkably insightful, you know.”

“See?” Dean can’t help his own, reciprocal smile. “Not just a pretty face.”

“No,” Cas says earnestly. “There’s always been a lot more to you than your pretty face, Dean.”

“Dude,” he says, embarrassed – and stupidly pleased, like a freakin’ teenage girl. It’s pathetic. He drops his hand from Cas’s shoulder and shoves it manfully into his pocket. “So— Talking of cleaning up messes, you gonna let me buy you some stuff?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re not the only one with a debt, man. Do me a favor and let me pay a little back.”

Cas watches him through those open, curious eyes. “You’re paying _me_ back?”

“Yeah, for all the times I’ve been a jerk, which is a lot, probably. And for— Look, I should’ve helped you out. Months ago. This is— This is what I should have done back then, but I’d fucked up and so I couldn’t. So just— Just let me do this, okay?”

Cas considers it for a while, his gaze fixed on Dean’s face until Dean feel’s his cheeks heat and is forced to look away before Cas sees too much. “Okay,” Cas says eventually. “If you feel it’s necessary.”

“I do,” he says, clapping him on the arm. And, _Jesus, will you stop freakin’ touching the guy?_

But Cas is already tracking Dean’s hand with his eyes, like he’s fascinated, and Dean doesn’t know what the hell to do with that. “Actually,” Cas says, looking up at last, “if they sell them here, I would like a belt.”

“A belt?”

“It’s—” He lifts the edge of his sweater to reveal a flash of bare skin above his sagging jeans. “Since I started running I’ve found that the waist…”

Dean loses the thread of his words, his eyes snagging on that strip of skin, on the edge of the angel-warding tattoo just visible above his hipbone. It jolts a flare of want down low, right below his own fucking belt, and Dean has to ball his fingers into fists to keep from reaching out and just... just—

“Dean?” Cas finishes, head tilted in query.

“Uh,” he mutters and pulls his eyes up. “Uh, yeah. What?”

Cas frowns. “A belt?”

Dean fixes his eyes on something – anything – that isn’t Cas. “Um,” he clears his throat, “you. Yeah. Let’s see if they have some jeans that fit better.”

***

By the time they get back to the house, it’s getting dark and there are lights on. Daphne is home. Crap.

Dean hesitates when Cas gets out of the car, wondering if he can just wait outside while Cas grabs his stuff or if that looks skeevy and adolescent. “Aren’t you coming in?” Cas asks through the open door.

Dean swallows a mouthful of whatever the hell he’s feeling and nods. “Yeah, sure.” Still, he could do without witnessing the happy couple in person and can’t wait to get on the road. Just him and Cas. Yeah. He wants it like his next freakin’ breath and wonders why the hell they never did this before, why he never took the time to just hang out with Cas before Daphne was on the scene.

Not that there’d ever been much time, what with one apocalypse or another, but still. He could’ve found time here and there if he’d tried, if he’d been man enough to figure out what the hell it was he wanted before it was too fucking late. Not that what he really wants might ever have been on the cards, but there were times, back in the day, back before it all went to crap, when he and Cas… When he’d sensed _something_ , an intensity, and he’d thought that maybe—

“I hope Daphne doesn’t mind me going away,” Cas says, hauling his WalMart bags out of the back seat and casting a wary glance at the house. “She doesn’t like me straying too far.” He gives a little self-deprecating grimace. “For obvious reasons.”

“She’ll be fine,” Dean says, like he knows the first thing about Daphne. “You’re allowed to have friends, Cas.”

Cas flicks his eyes to Dean’s. They look dark in the fading evening light. “Yes,” Cas says. “It’s good to have friends. A friend.”

“So go on,” Dean says nodding him toward the house, hands in his pockets to keep from doing something dumb. “Let’s get your crap and get this show on the road.”

As it turns out, Daphne’s pretty cool about the whole adventure. Dean might call it suspiciously cool if he was being suspicious, which he’s not. He’s done with that. She watches Cas head upstairs with a fond smile, and then when he’s gone she turns on Dean with an altogether different expression.

It’s like storm clouds are gathering in her sea-green eyes, threatening but silent on the horizon. He almost takes a step back when she approaches, but holds his ground, resolute. She’s just a woman, after all. A petite woman at that; he’s not afraid.

“He cares about you,” Daphne says, keeping the thunder banked but present. “You mean a great deal to him, Dean Winchester.”

He clears his throat. “Yeah, well. Me too. I mean, he’s— you know, we’re friends.”

Daphne makes a little humming sound in the back of her throat that sounds a lot like disbelief. “Friends,” she says, pleasant about it in the way a shark’s pleasant while circling a swimmer.

“Yeah, we’ve been through—” He allows himself an ironic smile. “We’ve been through hell together, him and me.”

She studies him, taking a step closer, and he thinks she smells like rainwater or waterfalls or—

“Dean?”

Daphne turns at the sound of Cas’s voice, laying a cool hand on Dean’s arm. “I was just telling Dean,” she says, “to make sure you don’t come back hurt.”

Cas is standing in the kitchen doorway with a bag over one shoulder, dressed in the new clothes they bought. He looks self-conscious and, objectively speaking, seriously hot. Dean has to clamp his jaw together to keep from gaping. “I’ll be fine,” Cas tells Daphne. “Dean’s a very good hunter.”

“You’re not so bad yourself,” Dean reminds him. It sounds more flirtatious than he’d intended.

But Cas just lifts an eyebrow that says – _you know that’s not true_ – and then turns to Daphne, taking her hands in his. Dean looks away then, down at the floor, up at that fascinating picture of a lake on the kitchen wall. “We’ll just be a few days,” Cas is saying quietly. “I’ll text you so you know where we are.”

“Just be careful,” Daphne says. “Don’t let him— Just take care of yourself, Steve. Be cautious.”

“I will,” he says, and then to Dean. “Shall we go?”

Dean gestures toward the front door. “Let’s do it.”

But as Cas heads to the door, Daphne catches Dean’s wrist. “I mean it,” she says in a low voice that won’t travel. “Don’t bring him back hurt. He’s a good man, he deserves better.”

“I won’t,” Dean says, tugging at his hand. She’s surprisingly strong and he can’t pull free. “I won’t let him get hurt.”

She tips her head, regards him with a steady gaze. He has the sudden feeling that there’s something going on beneath the surface of those eyes, rocks under still waters, and he remembers that he never did prove she wasn’t a witch. “He could wreck himself on you, Dean Winchester,” she says. “Be careful how you steer your course.”

And then she lets go and turns on her heel and Dean’s left staring, not sure what the fuck just happened, while Cas calls from the open door. “Dean?”

He can’t get out of there fast enough.

***

They drive south. Dean tells Castiel that they’re heading for Texas, for San Antonio.

“The Alamo,” Castiel says, picking out the details through the chaos of his human mind. Funny, the memories that surface. He glances at Dean, his face all angles in the flickering lights of the freeway. “That was nasty,” he tells him.

Dean snorts. “Don’t tell me you were there, man.”

Regarding him for a moment before he answers, Castiel wonders at the question. There’s so much Dean doesn’t know about who – what – he was and it’s strange that Castiel wants to explain himself. It’s not as if any of it matters now; it’s not who he is anymore. But still, he finds that he wants Dean to know, to understand him. “I was the angel who watches,” he says, turning his eyes on the road ahead, straight and dark. “I saw everything.”

“The angel who watches?” Dean says with a smile. “Dude, sounds kinda creepy.”

Castiel rolls his eyes, the familiar buzz of fond irritation huffing out in a sigh. “It was important,” he says, “to bear witness.”

“Without intervening?” Dean glances over when he asks the question and he’s not laughing, his eyes are serious.

“Not until I met you,” Castiel says.

Dean smiles. “Sorry about that, dude.”

“Don’t be.”

Silence fills the car, but it’s thoughtful and not uncomfortable. Castiel expects Dean to put on some music, but instead he says, “You don’t regret it, then? Getting involved.”

It’s a difficult question. “I— for millennia I did the will of heaven. I was a… You called me a hammer, once. Do you remember?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, soft. “I was wrong.”

“Not entirely. I was a hammer, a weapon of God, although…” He swallows, the enormity of his doubts difficult to admit. “Recently I’ve come to realize that I might have been more troublesome than I remember.”

“Meaning what?” Dean says, his voice a little sharper.

Castiel sighs. “There are…significant gaps in my memory. Naomi implied that she’d ‘reprogrammed’ me several times, that I’d always been ‘defective’.”

“Jesus,” Dean says. “What a bitch.”

It’s almost enough to make Castiel smile, but the truth is that it’s still too painful to find anything but tragedy in what the angels – himself very much included – have done to Heaven. And to Earth. “You asked me if I regretted getting involved,” he says, “and I don’t. I suppose I just wish I’d been strong enough to do it sooner.” He gives a little smile. “I guess I needed you, Dean. Your strength, your conviction.”

Dean doesn’t reply immediately, but when Castiel looks over he can see Dean's throat working like he’s swallowing hard. “Yeah, well, you too,” he says. “Without you…”

They let that hang in the silence for a while, both too aware of everything that lays between them now – the good and the bad.

“We made a good team,” Castiel says eventually. “When we worked together.”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Yeah, we did. The best.”

Castiel turns to look out the passenger window and thinks, _I miss that. I miss you_.

But he doesn’t say it out loud; it’s not the kind of thing Dean would like to hear.

 

They stop for the night in a little town called Walsenburg, and eat in the closest bar to the motel. It’s charming in a small town way, wooden tables and sports pictures on the wall. A TV in the corner is silently showing football, and the clientele are good, homespun people.

Castiel likes it.

They find a booth at the back and Dean puts a beer in front of Cas when he returns from the bar. “I ordered you a cheeseburger and fries,” he says. “No rabbit food.”

“You know,” Castiel says, as Dean slips into the seat opposite him, “Sam’s right. I’ve been reading up about it; you do need to eat more vegetables, Dean. Especially at your age.”

Dean glares at him. “At _my_ age?”

“You’re not a twenty-something anymore.”

“Still younger than you.”

Castiel lifts an eyebrow. “That’s not difficult; I’m as old as creation.”

“Yeah,” Dean says with half a smile, “you’re acting like it, Grandpa.”

Castiel leans back in his seat and regards Dean over the table. “You don’t expect to reach old age,” he says. It’s not exactly a revelation, but it has additional poignancy now that he’s human and acutely aware of his own mortality. Blink and you’ll miss this life.

Dean takes a long swallow of beer. “I’ve got a Knight of Hell on my ass, Cas. Don’t think I need to bother with a pension plan.”

“Doesn’t mean you can’t eat a salad once in a while.”

Dean lifts his eyebrows, leans forward over the table. “You want me to go change your order? Tofu salad? It’s not too late.”

He’s calling his bluff of course, and Castiel lets him, enjoys the game and schools his mouth into faux-irritation. “A cheeseburger’s fine, since you’ve already ordered it.”

Dean’s grin is priceless. “Yeah,” he says, “you want it. I know you want it.”

 _Yes_ , Castiel thinks with a strange flush of urgency. _I do. I do want it._

And it’s like the air between them shifts, shimmers into something charged, the look in Dean’s eyes warming from teasing to hungry. Castiel has no idea what that means, only that he _wants_. He wants—

“Here we go, guys!” The waitress is holding a plate in each hand and reaches between them to put the food on the table.

Castiel has to sit back; he hadn’t realized he’d been leaning forward, into Dean's space.

Dean’s cheeks are a little flushed, but he gives the waitress a wide smile and a wink and says, “Thanks, sweetheart,” following her with his eyes as she walks away. “Nice,” he says with a nod of approval, although there’s a little frown between his eyes that doesn’t quite match the rest of his expression.

Castiel glances over at the waitress, who’s young and pretty and smiling at Dean from behind the bar. “You shouldn’t objectify women like that,” he observes irritably, turning to his cheeseburger.

Dean snorts. “Dude? Seriously. Who told you that, Daphne?”

“No,” he says. “It’s just… Obvious.”

“Yeah well,” he says, glancing at the bar with another smile, “looks like she’s objectifying the hell outa me too.”

And Castiel doesn’t know why that should bother him, only that it does. “Perhaps we should have got two rooms?” he says coolly.

“What? No. C’mon, it’s just a little flirting.”

“Hmm,” Castiel says.

“Dude, seriously. This trip’s not about that, it’s about you and me. I mean, you know—” He looks down, that little frown back between his eyes, “Not like _that_ , obviously.”

“Obviously,” Castiel echoes.

“Just – guy time, right? Two friends on the road together.”

And that makes Castiel smile, dispels his moment of irritation, because time with Dean is all he’s ever really wanted and he’ll take it however he can get it. Still smiling, he takes a big bite of burger. “This _is_ delicious,” he admits around his mouthful, a concession to their previous conversation.

Dean’s smiling too as he bites into his own burger. “Food of the fucking gods, man.”

“Fucking ambrosia,” Cas agrees seriously, which makes Dean bark out a laugh so hard he almost chokes.

When he’s got himself back under control he lifts his bottle in salute. “To the open road,” he says. “To junk food, beer, and good company.”

“The best company,” Castiel amends and knocks his bottle against Dean’s. Then he smiles, he really smiles because suddenly… “This— Dean,” he says in wonder, “I think I feel _happy_. I mean, for the first time really... I feel happy.”

Dean’s answering smile is so full of feeling that Castiel can’t interpret it, but he knows it’s good. He knows Dean’s happy too and like a feedback loop it just makes his own smile grow wider.

“We need more beer,” Dean decides and flags down the waitress. “This is gonna be an awesome night, buddy.”

 

It _is_ an awesome night, it’s so awesome that when they stumble into the motel room the ceiling is spinning and they’re laughing so hard Castiel’s afraid he’ll damage his fragile human body. He doesn’t even know what’s funny, it’s just _everything_.

Dean collapses face first onto the closest bed and Castiel flops down next to him on his back. Which prompts Dean to turn his head and look at him and say, “Well, hello cowboy.”

It makes Castiel laugh again, for no reason at all other than the ridiculous way Dean waggles his eyebrows. “Yee-ha?” he says.

And Dean snorts “Jesus” and presses his face into the pillow. “I’m too freakin’ drunk,” he says, muffled, then turns his head and looks at Castiel from beneath heavy lashes. “Or maybe not drunk enough.”

Castiel smiles at him, not entirely following the complex play of emotions across his face. He’s still so unpracticed at this, at reading Dean without the thrum of his grace through the bond they share. “Not drunk enough?” he says. “Dean, the ceiling is _moving_.”

Dean smiles, fond, and half reaches out a hand as if he’s going to touch Castiel’s face. But something stops him, and he tucks it under his pillow instead. “Not drunk enough,” he mumbles. “Not nearly fucking enough.”

And Castiel wants to ask him more about that, but the ceiling is spinning faster now and his stomach has started to follow suit. He feels— queasy. It’s horrible. But it’s better if he closes his eyes. Better if he just lies still and waits for it to pass, just listens to Dean’s breathing slow toward sleep, listens to the cars rumble past outside, and lets himself sink down, down into tangled dreams rife with unfocussed longing.

***

“I’m telling you, Sam,” Dean says, low into his phone, “there’s something seriously off about her.”

He’s standing huddled against the cold outside the motel room where Cas is still comatose on the bed they’d accidentally shared – and yeah, crap, whatever – and the sun is too harsh for his hungover eyes.

“Don’t tell me,” Sam says, “she’s into motherhood and apple pie?” He sounds bright and fresh, like he’s just come back from a ten mile run or something. He’s probably drinking a kale smoothie.

“I’m serious,” Dean growls, which isn’t difficult given his current state. “She was strong as fuck and…weird. There’s just something weird about her.”

Down the line, Sam sighs. “Dean—”

“I mean it,” he says. “I’m not just—” He closes his eyes, like that makes it easier to say this, “It’s not just because she and Cas are, whatever. I just got a vibe off her, Sam. A gut instinct.”

Sam’s silent for a beat, then he says, “Okay. You want me to check her out?”

“No,” he says, glancing back toward the room. He doesn’t want to piss Cas off further, not now things are getting easier. “Just do some research, will you?”

“Into what?”

“I don’t know – strange women who take in waifs and strays?” It’s a start, he supposes.

And maybe it doesn’t sound entirely crazy, because Sam says, “Yeah, okay. Uh, maybe you could ask Cas about how they met? I mean, subtly.”

Dean grimaces at the thought of talking to Cas about Daphne, but yeah, it makes sense. “Okay,” he says. “Let me know if you dig anything up.”

“Will do,” Sam says. Then, after a pause, “So, uh, how are you guys getting on, anyway?”

“Good,” Dean says and can’t fight the smile at the memory of the previous night. “Having a blast.”

He can hear Sam grin down the line, and it’s not entirely ironic. He just says, “Good. That’s good. You deserve a vacation.”

“It’s a case,” Dean reminds him.

“Right,” Sam says, and he’s obviously still grinning. “Whatever, Dean.”

“Jerk,” he says and hangs up.

He takes a couple more cold breaths before he heads back into the room. He needs to brace himself against the sight awaiting him inside: Cas sprawled asleep on the bed, unshaven, his hair all fucked-up and touchable. Dean rubs a hand over his face. He can handle this. He can. It’s not the first time he’s wanted something he can’t have. It’s just the first time he's wanted it this much, right down into the bloody heart of himself.

 _Fuck,_ he thinks, and pushes open the door.

To his credit, Cas is doing pretty much everything in his power to cool Dean’s amorous feelings; he’s on his knees in the bathroom, slumped over the can, groaning like a bitch. “I hate you,” he moans when he hears Dean come back inside.

“Lightweight,” Dean says and pushes shut the bathroom door so he doesn’t feel compelled to do something dumb like rub Cas’s back or run his fingers through his— Yeah, right.

After a while he hears the toilet flush, the water run in the sink, and eventually Cas emerges looking pasty-faced and miserable. “I’m never drinking alcohol again,” he announces. “Ever.”

“Have some water,” Dean says. “You’ll be fine.”

“It’s literal poison.”

“Good poison, though, right?” He gives Cas a smile and feels a little flutter of pleasure when Cas returns a pale imitation. “Last night was a blast, dude. Can’t remember the last time I laughed like that.”

Gingerly, Cas sits on the edge of the bed and accepts the plastic cup of water Dean offers. “It was fun,” he agrees.

“Worth the hangover?”

Another slight smile. “Ask me later.”

Dean gives him a gentle punch on the shoulder, mostly to keep his fingers from pushing that mop of unkempt hair from his forehead. “I’m gonna take a shower if you’re done in there?”

“Go ahead,” Cas says and closes his eyes. “I’ll just— sit.”

He showers quickly – just in case – and dries off, wraps a towel around his waist and heads back to find some clothes.

Cas is still sitting where he left him, but he’s got his phone in his hand, squinting down at the screen as he taps out a message.

Dean tries to ignore it, tries to pretend he’s not texting Daphne – his _fiancée_. He rummages in his bag for clothes and takes them into the bathroom to change; he doesn’t want to set any kind of precedent that involves Cas stripping off in the room. When he’s back out again, Cas is still staring at the screen.

“Dude,” Dean says, exasperated. “Take a shower.”

He looks up. “Daphne says Alpine mineral water is the best treatment for a hangover.”

Dean scrubs a hand through his hair. “Eggs and bacon, Cas. That’s what you need.”

“Daphne—”

“Take a shower. I’m hungry.” The last thing he wants to do is talk about Daphne, not before he’s eaten.

Dean puts the TV on while Cas showers. Weird, Cas showering. He can’t imagine it. Not that he’s trying to imagine it. Although now he’s thinking about imagining it—  “ _Fuck._ ” He turns up the volume to drown out the sound of running water.

“I used your shampoo,” Cas says when he eventually emerges from the bathroom in a cloud of steam. “I forgot to pack any.” He shakes his head and adjusts the towel around his waist. “ _So_ much to remember.”

Dean is manfully staring at the screen and not looking at Cas wearing nothing but a towel, at that freakin’ tattoo above his hipbone. “Dude, I hope you brought your own toothbrush.”

“It’s okay,” he says, oblivious to Dean’s struggle not to be a giant perv, “I borrowed yours.”

“What?” He swings around to find Cas smiling down into his bag. The guy has the _worst_ poker face – except, obviously, when he’s making deals with the King of Hell. “Got you,” Cas says, with such obvious delight that the only thing Dean can reasonably do is throw a pillow at his head.

“Douchebag.”

Cas laughs, then grimaces. “Headache.”

“Leave my toothbrush alone,” he says as Cas starts pulling a clean shirt from his bag. And suddenly Dean’s staring at his broad shoulders, at a drop of water running down from his hair and along one shoulder blade. He turns away too late; that image is going to haunt him forever. _Fuck_.

 

They eat breakfast mostly in silence, Cas poking at his bacon and eggs at first and then eating with more gusto as the magic starts to work. High fat, high protein, high caffeine: best hangover cure ever.

“Remarkable,” Cas says eventually, pushing his empty plate aside and picking up his grossly sugary coffee. “I actually feel…”

“Human?”

He gives half a smile. “Yes, I suppose so.” He stretches a little, like he’s working kinks out of his back, and the unaccustomed humanity of it touches Dean. Cas is just a guy, now. Just a normal – well, not _that_ normal – guy who can bleed like the rest of them.

“You, ah,” Dean says, “you gonna be up for the hunt when we get there?”

Cas narrows his eyes. “Meaning what?”

“Just, you know— It’s been a while.”

“If you didn’t think I was capable, why did you bring me along?”

Okay, touchy subject. “Just looking out for you, man,” he says, reaching for his own coffee. Black, like coffee should be. “Daphne will kick my ass if anything happens to you, apparently.” And there you go, who said Dean Winchester couldn’t be subtle? Even if the subject does make something crawl in the pit of his belly. Sam would be proud. He forces a smile and says, “She, uh, obviously likes you. A lot.” Smooth, Dean.

Cas lifts an eyebrow. “She’s very kind.”

“Kind, right.” He shifts, tries to look casual and not like he’s peeling off his own skin. “I guess so, given the, um, circumstances when you met.”

Cas’s gaze slips out the window like it always does when he’s uncomfortable, like he’s wishing he could just disappear in a flutter of wings. “Yes,” he says, “it wasn’t exactly…”

He trails off, which gives Dean the perfect opportunity to say, “You never told me what happened. You know, after the Leviathan…”

“No.” Cas puts down his coffee, brings his attention back from the window and fixes it on the tabletop. “It’s not a time I’m…” Then he glances up, his human eyes still retaining something of their angelic intensity as he regards Dean. “Do you _want_ to know?”

 _Nope _,__ he thinks. What he says is, “Yeah, if you want to tell me.”

Cas considers that for a while, sits in silence when the waiter comes back and refills their coffee and takes away the empty plates. When they’re alone again, Cas says, “I don’t remember everything, of course. I wasn’t fully in control until they…left.” He’s spooning sugar into his coffee, stirring the cream around and around. “I was— I woke up, or somehow returned to myself, in the water. It was…” The spoon stops moving, the coffee continuing to swirl around it. “I was surprised to be alive. The Leviathan were so malevolent, so full of hatred for me...”

“So you remembered that?” Dean hadn’t realized. “You remembered the Leviathan?”

Cas frowns, tips his head. “Yes,” he says, looking Dean square in the eye like it’s a revelation. “I did _then_. But…” His frown deepens. “I remember letting go.”

“Of what?”

He’s silent for a beat, goes very still. “Of everything.”

“Jesus, Cas…”

“My clothes – they were heavy, pulling me down, and I let them. I remember closing my eyes and thinking that if I just let go it would all stop...”

Dean doesn’t know what to say to that; there’s nothing he can say that won’t sound trite.

After a pause, Cas takes a breath and carries on. “The next thing I remember,” he says, “is waking up on the bank of a river. Naked. I didn’t know who I was, where I was. I felt— there was this enormous blankness inside my mind.” He makes a face, a flat sort of smile. “A wall, I suppose, like Sam’s. I don’t know if I built it myself, if it was something left behind by the Leviathan, or...” He shrugs and sips his coffee. “I was entirely alone. It was terrifying.”

Dean blows out a slow breath. “I’m sorry, Cas.”

“For what?” he says. “I brought it on myself.”

Dean can’t exactly deny that, and doesn’t want to enter another round of ‘who-fucked-up-the-most’. Besides, his spidey senses are tingling. “And that’s where Daphne found you?” he prompts. “Naked on the edge of a river in Kansas?”

Cas nods. “It must have been…disturbing for her,” he says. “But she was very kind.”

“She call the cops or anything?” That’s subtle, right? He’s saying it casual, not like he’s investigating a case.

“I don’t remember,” Cas says. “Everything from that period is hazy. I know she took me back to her house.”

Dean lifts an eyebrow. “Naked?”

“There was a blanket,” Cas says with an acerbic frown. “I was very cold. I remember that.”

“Did you try and find out who you were? I mean later on.”

Cas’s lips press together, making a hard line. “No. I didn’t want to.”

“Why not?”

“Obviously,” Cas says, “part of me knew I wouldn’t like what I discovered.”

“And Daph was okay with that?”

“Like I said, she’s a very kind woman.”

“Yeah,” Dean says with a liar’s nod. “You lucked out there, man.” And in Dean’s experience that kinda luck is never, ever lucky. “You, uh, ever find your clothes?”

Cas shakes his head. “No. That’s something of a mystery. I can’t imagine I stripped them off myself, but if I had wouldn’t they have been there on the riverbank with me?”

“Good question,” Dean says lightly.

“I have no answer to it,” Cas confesses. “My memory is so patchy.”

Dean bites his tongue – literally. He’d bet the farm on ‘Daphne Allen’ knowing exactly what happened to Cas that day. The thought makes him itch and he swallows the dregs of his coffee to keep himself from squirming. “I’m gonna hit the john,” he says, “and then we need to hit the road.” He gets up, but Cas stops him with a hand on his wrist, his fingers warm against Dean’s skin.

“Thank you,” he says, “for listening to that. I haven’t— I’ve never really talked about it before.”

“Dude, anytime,” he says, and puts a hand on Cas’s shoulder to emphasize the point. And then he remembers that freakin’ drop of water trailing along his shoulder blade and snatches his hand back. “I, uh, need to pee,” he says, and disappears into the bathroom with most of his masculinity intact.

He takes the opportunity to text Sam: _think Daph fucked with Cas’s memory_.

Because, yeah, he’s almost one-hundred percent certain that’s what happened.

All he needs now is the evidence.


	4. Chapter 4

“You should let me drive,” Castiel says when they stop for gas mid-morning. He’s been dozing for a couple of hours and feels much better for it, but Dean’s yawns are so huge they're cracking his jaw. “You’re tired,” he adds. “You could sleep.”

Dean laughs until he realizes Castiel isn't joking, and then he looks a little ill. “Dude, can you even drive?”

“No, but how hard can it be?”

Dean just stares.

“Of course I can _drive_ ,” Castiel says with a roll of his eyes. “It’s a very simple process.”

Dean hedges, one hand running over the trunk of the Impala. “You don’t have a license.”

“Neither do you.”

“You don’t have a _fake_ license.” 

“You’re going to fall asleep at the wheel and kill us.”

Dean narrows his eyes. “I’ll get a coffee.”

“Okay,” Castiel agrees and holds out his hand for the keys, “but I’m still driving, Dean.”

“Dude—”

“I’m human, now,” Castiel reminds him. “I’m invested in not dying in a ditch.”

Dean stares at him for a beat or two and then huffs out a snort, shakes his head and looks like he’s biting back a smile as he knocks the toe of his boot against one of the rear tires. 

“What?” Castiel says.

“Nothing.” But Dean’s smiling now, still shaking his head. “Guess it’s just good to see you get some of your bite back.”

“My what?”

“Your, uh, tetchiness.”

“That doesn’t sound like a good thing.” Although he can see by Dean’s smile that he thinks it is.

“Reminds me of the old you, is all,” Dean says. “You know, back before... Before the shit-storm.”

 _Which one?_ Castiel wants to ask, and tries not to feel deflated that Dean is nostalgic for the creature he once was. “I’ll never be the ‘old me’ again, Dean.”

“C'mon, you’re still you.” His expression turns more serious. “No one can change that.”

Castiel touches his fingers to his throat. He can still feel the blade slicing his skin, the dreadful ebb of power when Metatron took his grace and turned him into something unrecognizable to his own eyes. “I don’t know,” he says. “You’d be surprised.”

“Bullshit.” Dean pulls the nozzle out of the car, hanging it back on the pump. “You’re still you, Cas, you’ve just had some upgrades.” He heads off to pay, moving past him so close that their shoulders bump.

“What upgrades?” Castiel says, turning to watch him leave.

“Well, for one,” Dean says spinning around and walking backwards. “You can drive.”

“I could do that before.” 

“But now you can drive Baby.” He pulls the keys out of his pocket, dangling them like a trophy. “Here’s the deal: you put one scratch on her and I kill you. See? Couldn’t have made _that_ deal when you still had your wings on.”

Castiel quells his burgeoning smile. For all that Dean has endured, the fact that he's still retained this childlike exuberance is testament to the brightness of his sprit, that light Castiel used to be able to see shining in his soul. He doesn't say any of that, of course, what he says is, “That’s ridiculous.”

“That’s the deal.” Dean throws him the keys and Castiel snatches them out of the air. His reactions are still pretty fast, by human standards. “Take it or leave it,” Dean says with a wink.

With a _wink_?

He’s about to comment when Dean turns away, hurrying to the store and muttering words under his breath that Castiel’s human ears don’t catch.

It doesn't matter. Castiel is smiling now; he can’t help it, turning the keys over in his hands as he watches Dean disappear into the store. It’s an act of trust, of friendship, letting Castiel drive his car, and that makes him happy. Very happy. 

He ducks his head, hiding his grin. It's incredible how little control he has over his emotions these days – he finds himself smiling without realizing it, or buried under unexpected waves of distress or remorse. Humans feel _everything_ so much more acutely than he'd ever realized.

And he’s aware that this feeling Dean provokes, this joy that’s bubbling up in his chest, is something extraordinary. It's certainly not something he experiences when he’s with Daphne. But then neither does she make him feel as wretched as he felt when Dean ejected him from the bunker, when he drove off and left him alone in Rexford.

Daphne is cool, calm and healing. Dean is passionate, exciting and dangerous. And it’s unnerving how much he wants that, how much he yearns for the fire of Dean Winchester even when he knows it could leave him in ashes. 

Afraid that some of his unruly emotions might be written on his face, Castiel slips into the driver’s seat when he sees Dean leaving the store. He turns the key in the ignition and takes a couple of moments to review what he knows about driving. He wasn’t lying to Dean, it’s very easy, and he’s been around the Winchesters long enough to have observed most of the subtleties. 

Nevertheless, when he tries to put the car in gear it makes an unusual grinding sound that has Dean flinging open the passenger door and yelling, “Clutch! Use the fucking clutch!”

He ignores the comment – he knew that – and engages the clutch, slides the car into first. “Ready?” he asks Dean.

Dean’s already looking panicked but, to his credit, doesn't renege on the deal. “One scratch,” he warns, dumping a couple bags of chips and one of the ‘adult’ magazines he sometimes buys on the seat between them. Castiel eyes it for a moment, then looks away and pulls smoothly out of the parking lot and onto the empty highway.

“Good,” Dean says as Castiel shifts smoothly through a couple more gears. “Yeah, okay, good.”

It’s ridiculous how pleased Castiel feels at Dean’s praise; he can actually feel his pleasure humming under his skin in the space his grace used to inhabit. 

As he’d suspected, the driving is easy. The road is straight, there are few other cars, and within a couple of miles Castiel is starting to get bored. He reaches for the radio, but Dean slaps his fingers away.

“Hands on the wheel, dude. Eyes on the road.”

“You always say ‘Driver picks—’”

“My car, my rules.” Dean turns the dial on the stereo until he finds a station playing the kind of music he likes. 

Castiel doesn’t know enough about music to know whether he likes it or not, but he’s happy for anything that breaks the silence. He glances over at Dean, who looks like he’s starting to relax. He’s loosened his death grip on the seat, at least. And then Castiel notices the magazine again, sitting between them, and against his better judgment he says, “Why do you buy those things?”

“What?”

“That magazine,” Castiel says. “Why did you buy it?”

Dean barks an uncomfortable laugh. “Uh, why do you think?”

“I assume because you enjoy looking at pictures of naked women.”

“Damn straight,” Dean says, and turns to gaze out of the passenger window.

A few miles slip past in silence while Castiel worries at the problem. “It’s just,” he continues at last, “I know you don’t have any trouble…” he reaches for the colloquial expression “…‘getting laid’. So why do you need pornography?”

“Jesus,” Dean mutters, still looking out the window. “It’s just something red-blooded guys do, okay?”

“Sam doesn’t.”

Irritated, Dean shifts around to face him. Castiel can see him from the corner of his eye, bunched up against the passenger door as if trying to put as much distance as possible between them. “Okay, first,” he says, “I said ‘red-blooded guys’, not kale-munching freaks. Second, Sam totally does. Trust me. Why do you think he’s always carrying that freakin’ laptop around with him?” He makes another irritable noise. “Bet you do too, man.”

Castiel glances at him, at the flush creeping up his neck and into his ears. “I don’t,” he says, turning back to the road. “I don’t like those magazines.”

Dean’s silent and Castiel can feel the seat move as he fidgets, feels it when Dean’s fingers start to drum an uneasy tattoo on the seat. “Daphne’s all you need, huh?”

And, well, he's not sure how to answer that except with the truth. He turns to glance at Dean and their eyes meet, hold. “Actually,” he says, “we don't.”

“Don't?”

“Have sex.”

Dean's eyebrows rise and his mouth makes an 'oh' shape before Castiel looks away, feeling awkward in a way he doesn't fully understand. “Daphne says to wait,” he explains. 

There's a pause before Dean answers, and when he does his voice is lower, rougher than usual. “What, like, until you're married?” He sounds doubtful. 

Somehow Castiel doesn't think that's what Daphne means, but he doesn't want to stoke Dean's suspicions about her. It irritates him that Dean believes no one could be interested in him without malevolent and supernatural intent. So he lies. “Yes, she says we should wait until we're married. She's very devout.” That idea amuses him. “Ironic, considering, don't you think?”

Dean's not amused; Castiel can feel discomfort radiating out from him like heat. “But, uh, before?” he says awkwardly. “When you were ‘Emmanuel’, it was...” He makes a crude gesture with his hands that Castiel catches out the corner of his eye. “You know?”

“No,” he confesses, flexing his fingers on the steering wheel and wondering why he brought the subject up in the first place. What is this strange compulsion he has to bare himself to Dean in this way?

“No?” Dean repeats, incredulous. “Not ever?”

“You have to remember,” he says, “that even though I didn't know who I was, I was still an angel. And angels feel desire differently to humans, less viscerally. Or so I'm learning.”

“So back then you didn't, uh, feel the urge?”

“Not especially, no.”

There's a long pause before Dean clears his throat and says, “And, uh, now?”

“I...” Castiel breathes out, not sure how to explain what he doesn't fully understand. “Now I feel so _much_ , Dean. So many different desires, needs, wants – it's hard to differentiate.”

“Uh, okay.”

“I mean, these days, a good cup of coffee can make me feel _ecstatic_ in a way the creation of the cosmos never did. Coffee!” He shakes his head. “It's quite overwhelming.”

Dean snorts out a laugh. “Dude,” he says, “it's this kinda whacked out conversation with you that I missed.”

Which makes Castiel smile – again – because the thought of Dean missing him provokes another surge of feeling he can't fully parse. It's joyful, bright like sunshine, and it fills him right up. “I missed our conversations too,” he says. “I always enjoy spending time with you, Dean.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, more quietly. “Yeah, me too.”

After that they don't speak much more, just listen to the radio and watch the road roll past. Dean sleeps for a while, head propped against the window, and Castiel steals a couple of glances at him while he drives and tries to analyze the complexity of his feelings. He loves Dean, he knows that, has known it for a long time. But that was a pure kind of angelic love, righteous and hard as steel. What he feels now is different, softer, more textured, and layered with many other feelings: hurt, joy, anger, amusement, betrayal, triumph, pain. It's as if he feels every feeling in the world for Dean.

_Including desire?_

The small voice whispers the question in the back of his mind, the one thing he doesn't allow himself to think about. Dean wouldn't like it, he's sure of that, so he pushes the thought away, refuses to answer the question. His gaze falls on the magazine sitting between them on the seat and he moves a bag of chips on top so he can't see the cover, returns his attention to the road and keeps on driving.

***

So.

Dean winked at Cas. He winked and then panicked so hard he went straight into the Gas-n-Sip and bought the first skin mag he could find just to reassert his undiluted heterosexuality.

Freakin’ jerk.

It’s not even helping to distract him from the memory of that drop of water running along Cas’s shoulder blade, of the muscular flex of his back, of that towel riding low on his hips, the tattoo above his hip bone—

 _Fuck_. 

He looks up from where he’s leaning on the hood of the car, flipping through the magazine as he waits for Cas to get back from the bathroom before they push on to San Antonio. It’s late afternoon, but they’re far enough south now that the air’s warmed up and it’s a relief after the cold up in Kansas. Dean’s stripped off his jacket and is enjoying the low rays of the sun in his shirtsleeves.

He takes a breath and tries to relax. It’s not like Cas knows what’s going on inside his head; Cas is too new to this messed-up world of humanity to have guessed Dean’s dirty little secret. It’s just that Dean’s never found it very easy to look and not touch, and truth be told he’s never really had to learn the skill. Mostly, in this one area of his life, he gets what he wants when he wants it. So to know he’ll _never_ be able to touch, that what he wants is so far off limits that it might as well be on another freakin’ planet…? Well, that’s just eating at him. 

And he’s wondering whether this is the reason he always kept that little sliver of personal space between him and Cas, because he knew that if he got too close he’d want to get _too close_ in a way that’s never going to happen.

Perhaps, Dean thinks, he was smarter than he realized.

The door to the store opens and Cas comes out. He’s holding something in his hands and Dean can tell just from the way he’s walking that he’s pleased with himself. A moment later he sees why and Dean knows he’s totally screwed; Cas has bought himself a pair of knock-off Aviators and, damn, but he looks hot in them.

“What do you think?” he says, spreading his arms as if to say ta-dah. 

Dean nods, can’t help the smile that’s half hungry and half absurdly _fond_. “Looking good, man,” he says. “Looking good.”

Cas ducks to catch his reflection in the car window. “It was difficult,” he explains, “driving with the sun in my eyes.”

And Dean can’t help thinking _God bless the freakin’ sun_. “C’mon,” he says, “I’ll drive us into the city.”

Cas hesitates then throws the keys over, stretches out his back, and slips into the passenger seat looking cool as fuck. 

_Jesus_ , Dean thinks. _I’ve created a freakin’ monster_.

“You haven’t told me what we’re hunting yet,” Cas says when Dean gets into the car and starts the engine. He throws the magazine into the back seat, but not before he catches Cas eyeing it thoughtfully.

“Well, I don’t know for sure,” Dean says. “There’s been a couple of disappearances – hikers – and sightings of some kind of creature with horns near a bridge just south of the city. Plus reports of ‘unnatural’ screams from the woods, and footprints – well, _hoof_ prints – under the bridge. Oh, also someone’s dog got eaten.” 

Cas tilts his head and Dean can almost see his eyes narrow despite the sunglasses. “Hoof prints?”

“I’m thinking maybe it’s a ‘goatman’,” Dean says. “Plenty of lore about them all over the world. Dad hunted one years ago up in Bowie, Maryland. Nasty sonofabitch, apparently, horns and hooves, the whole works. It got away, though. Dad couldn’t take it down.”

Cas gives a thoughtful hum. “Sounds like a _se’irim_.”

Dean glances at him. “A what?

“A _se’irim_ – a ‘dark angel’.”

Dean snorts. “Dude, Dark Angel was a TV show.” He cocks an eyebrow. “Jessica Alba? Hot.”

Cas huffs out an impatient sigh. “I think the real _se’irim_ came first, Dean. And they’re definitely not ‘hot’.” 

Sometimes Dean wonders if he irritates Cas just to get a rise out of him because that sigh, that eye-roll, is just _so_ — “Okay,” he swallows his smile, “so what’re we talking about here? Goatmen with wingsuits?”

“Even for me the story is legend,” Cas says. “But it’s said that during the war in Heaven Lucifer sent one of his lieutenants, Ashmodai, into the deepest circles of Hell to experiment with the Darkness.”

“The Darkness?”

“Or _Erebus_ , in Greek,” Cas says, as if that’s any damn help. 

“Right. Listen, professor, is there a point to this? Like, something that’s gonna help us kill the thing?”

Ignoring him, Cas settles down into the seat and adjusts his sunglasses. “You understand that when God created the angels He did so by divine fiat, right? He spoke into the _aether_ – the Light of Heaven – and called each angel into existence by its name.”

“Sexy,” Dean says, and then shakes his head because it actually kinda blows his mind. “Seriously, though, that’s how you were, uh, born…?”

“Created. Yes.”

“Huh.” He doesn’t think he’ll never get his head around how much of a big freakin’ deal Cas is – or _was_. He glances at the guy sitting next to him in his knock-off Aviators and flannel shirt and feels a pang of something hovering between awe, guilt and pity. Cas must feel his eyes on him because he looks over and Dean forces a smile; no way does he want Cas to see pity in his eyes. “Awesome, dude.”

With an indifferent shrug, Cas says, “Legend has it that Ashmodai attempted to use the Darkness in the same way God used the _aether_ , to try and create a legion of dark angels loyal to Lucifer. But of course he couldn’t replicate God’s work and the result was the unnatural, twisted abominations that are the _se’irim_.”

“So they’re what? Demons?”

“Of a sort,” Cas agrees, “but primal. After Lucifer fell, many of them were hunted and destroyed by the Host. The rest scattered across the world.”

“Which explains the lore,” Dean says. “You find ‘goatmen’ in pretty much every culture.”

“Yes, and throughout human history.”

“So,” Dean says, “if you’re right about this thing, how do we kill it?”

“You still have the demon-killing blade?”

“Yup.”

Cas shrugs. “That should do it.”

 

They roll into San Antonio in the late afternoon and snag a room at the _Carmino Reale_ motel, just south of the city. They dump their bags and head straight out to do a little recon of the area where the creature’s been seen; Dean always likes to get the lay of the land before a hunt. 

It’s after sunset by the time he pulls over in front of a low bridge over Elm Creek, trees crowding in from each side of the road, and when they get out of the car it’s cool enough for a jacket. And dark enough not to need sunglasses – Dean can’t decide whether he’s happy or sad about that.

“This is where it’s been seen,” he tells Cas. “Apparently it’s a local make-out spot for teens. Couple kids claimed they saw something watching them from the trees.”

“One of their fathers, perhaps?” Cas says as he pulls on his jacket. He’s not smiling, but Dean can hear humor in his voice.

He laughs – “Right” – and nods toward the shallow bank that leads under the bridge. “Wanna see if we can find hoof prints?” 

Cas looks dubious. “It’s almost dark.”

“What?” Dean says as he goes to the trunk and pulls out a couple of flash lights. “You afraid of the dark, dude?” 

“I’d be stupid not to be,” Cas says and snatches a flashlight out of Dean’s hand, leading the way down to the riverbank with stubborn irritation. 

Dean swallows a smile and follows, casting the beam of his flashlight around as he walks. The creek’s running pretty high and the bank is churned up and muddy. He winces as his boots sink in a couple inches and he thinks of Baby. “You know,” he admits, “maybe we should come back in the morning?” 

“What’s the matter?” Cas asks. “Not afraid of the dark are you, Dean?” 

The little bastard. “Afraid of landing on my ass in the mud.”

“Your ass will be fine…” Cas crouches, holding his flashlight up to cast a wider radius of light. “Huh,” he says. “Look.”

There are hoof prints sunk deep into the mud, lots of them.

“This is Texas,” Dean points out, peering over Cas’s shoulder to see. “Could be cattle, or deer, or—”

“Goat,” Cas says. “Those are goat hooves. Big ones.”

“Okay, Tonto, if you say so.”

Cas glances up but in the dark Dean can't see much more than the gleam of his eyes. “They're quite distinctive.” 

“So either we’re looking for a really big goat or…”

“Or a _se’irim_ ,” Cas agrees, and starts to stand up. Only his foot slips in the mud and he loses his balance with a yelp.

Dean grabs his arm, bracing his feet on the treacherous ground as Cas struggles to regain his balance. “Now who’s worried about landing on his ass in the mud?” Dean grins.

“Just—” Cas growls, his feet still slipping.

And then Dean’s foot sinks deeper, mud seeping into his boot. “Urgh,” he grumbles, trying to pull his foot out, but it’s stuck fast and the movement shifts his center of balance too far forward. “Shit!” He let’s go of Cas, arms wind-milling to keep himself from falling.

Cas falls back with a curse, landing on his ass. “Dean!” 

He looks so furious and disgusted that Dean snorts a laugh, which only makes Cas scowl all the harder.

“I’m glad you think it’s funny!” 

“It is,” Dean says, still struggling to get his boot out of the mud but laughing so hard he’s having no success. “It’s—”

“It’s gross, is what it is,” Cas fumes, twisting around, failing to get his feet under him and only sinking deeper. “Fuck!”

And there’s something so wrong about Cas cursing that it’s simultaneously hot as hell and hilarious, and there are actual tears of laughter in Dean’s eyes as he watches Cas struggle.

“You could at least help me!”

“Wait,” Dean says, wiping his eyes. “Just stay there.” He laughs again and pulls out his phone. 

“What are you—?” Cas glares. “Dean, do _not_ take a photo.”

“Man, I gotta.”

“ _Dean_.” And it’s the full-on angel-death-glare. Which would be more frightening if Cas wasn’t sitting on his ass in a muddy puddle that’s probably full of goat shit. “Dean, if you take a photo, I swear I’ll—”

He takes the photo. Cas curses again and Dean laughs at the screen; it’s a freakin’ hilarious photo. “For Sam,” he says, pocketing his phone and holding out a hand to help Cas up. 

“You’re an asshole,” Cas says sourly, but grips Dean’s arm anyway.

“C’mon man, it’s funny.”

“No. It’s not,” Cas says, tightening his grip on Dean’s arm. “But you know what _is_ funny?”

Dean feels a beat of panic a moment too late. “Cas—” 

He pulls hard on Dean’s arm, pitching him forward and practically face-first into the mud. He’s only partially saved because he half-lands on Cas.

“Sonofabitch!” 

And now Cas is laughing fit to bust something, one hand knotted into Dean’s jacket and actually keeping him out of the worst of the mud, but Dean’s on his knees in it anyway, one arm sunk to the wrist and his flashlight’s fallen away to his left. 

He grabs Cas’s shoulder to keep from sinking further and they must look fucking ridiculous rolling around in the mud. “ _Christ_ ,” he growls and then snorts something that’s part curse and part laugh and with his other hand, the one stuck in the mud, he hauls out a big glob of the stuff and dumps it on Cas’s head. “You bastard.”

Cas gasps at the cold, eyes blown wide in shock. That sets Dean laughing again, until Cas shoves a handful of mud down the back of his shirt. And then it’s pretty much war.

And it’s kinda exactly like the sort of shit he and Sam would’ve gotten into ten years ago – pelting each other with mud, wrestling in the dirt. Only it’s not. Only it’s entirely different. And when Cas eventually scrambles to his feet and makes a break for the road, and Dean sprints after him, catches the back of his jacket and grounds him with an _ooph_ , there’s a tension between them that there could never be with Sam. 

Still laughing, Cas struggles to get away, but Dean flips him over, pins his shoulders, straddles his hips to keep him in place. “Jerk,” he growls, laughing, and then— 

And then.

 _Shit_. 

And then they’re just looking at each other. Cas has mud everywhere, on his face, in his hair and he’s sucking in long heavy breaths somewhere between mirth and exhaustion. And Dean figures it’s two days of being stuck in the car together, it’s years of hard grind and grief, of war and blood, and it’s all bursting out in this crazy moment of— Of whatever the fuck this is.

He loosens his hold on Cas’s shoulders and Cas’s expression changes, calms. He’s not laughing now but his chest is still heaving and he’s looking at Dean with something akin to revelation in his eyes. His tongue wets his bottom lip, just a little, and in a low voice he says, “Dean…?”

 _Fuck_ , Dean thinks. _Fuck_. Because if this was anyone other than Cas he’d know how to read this moment, but this is _Cas_ and Cas knows fuck-all about anything. And he’s _engaged_ to freakin’ Daphne, and Dean’s not the kind of asshole who—

And that’s when the screaming starts, dark and unholy and like no animal Dean’s ever heard. 

He twists back toward the river, pushing himself off of Cas and to his feet. 

Cas scrambles up next to him, still breathing hard. “That’s definitely not a goat,” he says.

Which is so absurd it brings the smile back to Dean’s face despite the way his heart’s hammering, half in fear and half in— 

Half to be processed later. Like, way later. Like _never_.

“We should get outa here,” Dean says, taking a step backward.

“Didn’t we come here to kill it?”

Dean glances over at him – covered in mud, like a freak. Like a pair of freaks. “Not tonight. We’ll come back tomorrow with a plan, lure it in and trap it. You gotta control the situation, man, you can’t just go charging in like Rambo. That’ll get you killed.” _Like with that nest of vampires,_ he wants to add, but doesn’t. 

An approving little half-smile appears out of the mud on Cas’s face. “You’re right, of course. That’s a better strategy.”

“At least we know we’re in the right place,” Dean adds, still backing up toward the road. 

The scream comes again from somewhere in the woods, on the other bank Dean thinks. They’re probably not in any immediate danger. Unless there’re two of the bastards out there…

Cas retreats with him, step-for-step. “I’ve been thinking that since the _se’irim_ are demonic in origin, they might be susceptible to devil traps,” he says. “We could try that?”

“Yeah, worth a shot,” Dean says, working his way back up to the road. His boots are squelching as he stomps over to the car, there’s mud between his toes, and— “Shit,” he says. “We can’t get in the car like this.”

Cas gives him an incredulous look. “Well I’m not _walking_ back to the motel.” Another scream, perhaps a little closer, emphasizes his point. 

In the end Dean insists they strip off their jackets and shoes and then sit on a blanket. He curses under his breath all the way back to the motel, but whether he’s cursing about the mud or the _other thing_ he can’t be sure.

Occasionally he glances as Cas, but he’s silent and still, gazing out the passenger window with his hands folded in his lap and obviously trying not to lean back on the seat.

And really all Dean can think about is the way Cas had looked at him when he’d had him pinned down, all breathless and _hungry_ , and—

And he doesn’t know what it means. He just knows that if the monster hadn’t chosen that moment to introduce itself, he’d have probably done something _really_ fucking stupid.

 

He lets Cas shower first and Cas doesn’t even argue, which is probably testament to how cold he is. Dean makes use of the time by dragging all their muddy crap out of the car and piling it outside their room. They’re gonna have to hit a laundromat this evening, which is just fucking stupid, and yet…

He’s smiling. Despite that confusing moment at the end, he can’t help thinking about how much _fun_ that stupid mud fight had been – the kind of fun he just never has anymore. The kind of fun Cas has probably never had in all his billions of years.

That thought only broadens his smile; he likes the idea that he’s given Cas something new, tangible. He knocks his boots against the wall to get the worst of the mud off, and then does the same to Cas’s. Their jackets are beyond redemption, however, and will have to be washed. He dumps them with the blanket and their soggy socks. Ridiculous. Totally—

He grins again at the memory of Cas’s face when he’d dumped that first handful of mud onto his head. _Fuck it_ , he thinks. He’s allowed to have fun once in a while. 

Barefoot, he lets himself back into their room just as Cas is emerging from the bathroom. He looks warm and rosy, hair spiked up where he’s rubbed a towel over his head, and Dean feels his heart – his fucking _heart_ – soften into something embarrassingly mushy. “Hey,” he says, closing the door behind him. “You look, uh—” _Shut up!_ “—uh…cleaner.” 

_Jesus._

Cas just smiles. “Yes,” he says earnestly. “That was a _good_ shower.” He waves Dean toward the bathroom. “Your turn.”

“Right,” he says and makes his way into the bathroom. Cas’s clothes are piled in a soggy heap and he drops his own on top, then steps into the shower and sighs in relief as the hot water scalds his cold skin. God it feels good. 

It takes some effort not to think about Cas standing right here just a couple minutes ago, but he does because he’s not a freakin’ creep. So he distracts himself with how good the water feels and the empty rumble of his stomach. He could go for Chinese tonight. 

When he emerges into the cool of the room, Cas is sitting cross legged on one of the beds wearing sweats and one of the t-shirts Dean had bought him. His hair’s an uncombed tangle and he’s busy with his phone. Daphne, of course.

Dean quashes his jealousy and reminds himself that Sam is on the case; whatever weird secret Daphne is hiding, he’ll sniff it out. And then… His mind goes a little blank at that point, like it’s physically incapable of imagining what might happen next. 

“It’s snowing in Aurora,” Cas says. “Two feet since last night.”

“Yeah?” Dean rummages in his bag for some clean clothes. He definitely needs to hit the laundromat.

“I’m glad I’m here,” Cas muses. 

Dean glances up but Cas’s head is still bent over his phone. He says “Me too, this is a blast” at the same moment Cas says, “I dislike snow.”

And then they both freeze.

 _Crap,_ Dean thinks and prepares to barrel through the uncomfortable moment. “So, uh, you hungry?” 

Cas nods, but there’s a concerned look on his face that Dean desperately wants to ignore. “Dean.”

He grabs the last of his clean clothes and heads for the bathroom. “I was thinking Chinese?”

“I like Chinese,” Cas agrees, unfolding his legs and climbing to his feet. “Dean—”

“We need to hit the laundromat first, though, and—”

“Dean.” He’s directly between Dean and the bathroom now, cutting him off like it’s a military maneuver. 

Dean sighs. “What?”

Cas hesitates, no sign of that divine purpose he once possessed. “Just— I didn’t mean just because of the snow.”

Of course Cas doesn’t understand things like pretending not to notice when your friend accidentally says something sappy. Doesn’t mean Dean has to acknowledge it though, so he just says, “Huh?”

“Just now, I—” Cas frowns. “I’m glad I’m here for lots of reasons, Dean.”

“Right.” He tries to move past him without touching, feeling vulnerable in nothing but his thin motel towel, but Cas, the stupid bastard, has other ideas. 

He stops him with a warm hand on his arm, just above his elbow, and Dean all but jumps like he’s been shocked. “I’m having a ‘blast’ too,” Cas assures him. “I… I’m _very_ glad I’m here.” And for a moment his hand tightens fractionally around Dean’s arm, then he lets go and steps back with a slight, puzzled frown. But not before Dean sees the faint flush rising high on his cheekbones.

He all but flees into the bathroom to dress; Cas is confusing the hell out of him tonight.

***

Castiel hates laundromats.

“Dude,” Dean laughs, throwing him a bemused look as he drops their muddy clothes into the washing machine. “Why?”

He shrugs and says, “Bad associations.” He doesn’t want to explain that the first act of theft his newfound humanity had forced him into was in a laundromat; he’s ashamed of it, even more so because he still owns the clothes he stole. It’s not exactly the behavior of a repentant man.

“C’mon then,” Dean says once the machine is running, “let’s go find some food.”

“Yes.” He’s very hungry. 

There’s a Chinese restaurant a few minutes from the laundromat but Dean drives right past it and says, “You ever eaten real Tex-Mex, Cas?”

He considers the question. “The Gas-n-Sip sold breakfast burritos.”

Dean makes a face. “Yeah, doesn’t count.” He glances over and with another smile says, “Consider this a cultural education,” and takes them to a restaurant called _Tito's_. It’s not very prepossessing, scruffy on the outside and utilitarian inside, but the food, when it comes, is divine. And Castiel uses the term advisedly.

“Yeah?” Dean says, grinning at him around a mouthful of chimichanga. “Good, huh?”

“Very,” Castiel agrees. “It’s delicious.”

Dean watches him for a beat longer, and then says, “Does food taste different, now you’re human?”

“Mmm,” he nods as he shovels in another fork full of rice and beans and washes it down with a swallow of beer. “As an angel, I could only taste the component parts. As a human I can taste the fusion, the— the sum of its parts.” He cocks his head, considering. “I suppose you might say that an angel can only perceive its Father’s creations, while a human can perceive – and enjoy – those things humankind has created.” He takes another mouthful, chasing the idea while he chews. “It’s interesting. In many ways, angels perceive the universe more accurately and completely than the human mind could ever conceive, but humans see subtleties, connections and flaws to which angels are almost entirely blind.” He smiles at Dean. “That’s why you disturbed them so much; they couldn’t understand you at all.” 

Dean holds his gaze, eyes warm like they sometimes get, sparking a low flutter in Castiel’s stomach. “You did,” he says. “You understood me.”

“Well, you and I…” He stops because he doesn’t know how to continue; so much has changed. 

But for once Dean doesn’t let it go. “You and I what?” he says, gazing down at his plate, his hands very still.

“You and I were bonded,” Castiel says carefully.

Dean glances up. “Were?”

“I’m human now.” _And you told me to go. You drove away and left me alone._ “Everything is different.” 

Dean’s silent and after a long beat he says, “And there’s Daphne, of course.”

“Yes.”

After that neither of them says much more. Dean gets the check, pays in cash because “These are good people” and they head back to the car and the laundromat. On the way back to the motel Dean picks up a six pack of beer and a bottle of whiskey from a liquor store.

They take a bed each, Dean switches the TV on and hands Castiel a beer. He takes it to be polite, but has no intention of getting drunk; his body’s still recovering from the night before and, besides, after what happened by the river Castiel doesn’t trust himself to be that out of control. Dean however is drinking with intent.

Neither of them is watching the TV.

Dean’s eyes are closed, his fingers drumming on the bed at his side, and Castiel’s mind drifts back to the riverbank. He’s not sure what provoked him to pull Dean down into the mud, but he’s not laughed like... Well, he’s never really laughed like that before, not even when he was drunk the previous evening. That had been an intoxicated hilarity, but this was pure exuberance, pure joy. He and Dean had been behaving like children, fighting in the mud, but he’d loved it – loved the sheer innocence of it, the utter abandon.

And then it had changed. One moment he was laughing, Dean pinning his shoulders down, and the next... 

He’d never felt anything like the hot curl of desire licking flame at the base of his spine, not with April and certainly not with Daphne. He suspects it’s not new, that it’s always been part of what he feels for Dean, it’s just that he didn’t understand what it was before and now that he knows he can’t un-know. And he can’t stop feeling it, a slow pulse of want beating hard and low.

Humanity is like this for him, revealing itself in bits and pieces as his mind slowly makes sense of the emotional cacophony inside his head. It’s visceral, this feeling, powerful and _wrong_. 

He knows it’s wrong; it has to be. 

Dean is his _friend_ and this feeling, this physical desire, could ruin everything between them if Dean were to find out. It would ruin everything with Daphne too, if she knew. The whole tentative construction he’s building, this fragile human life where he has a home – a wife – and a friend in Dean, is under threat. His desire, the serpent in the garden, could bring it all crashing down if he lets it get the better of him. 

On the other bed Dean snorts and, distracted from his musings, Castiel glances over. Dean’s looking at his phone and perhaps senses Castiel’s gaze because he says, “Sending Sam that photo of you on your ass in the mud.”

He narrows his eyes in faux-disapproval. “Dean.”

Dean just chuckles and his phone makes a little sigh to tell him the message has gone. “You’re a crazy bastard,” Dean says, sinking back and staring up at the ceiling. He’s a little drunk, Castiel can see, and a good portion of the whiskey has gone, but he’s more relaxed than he’s been since leaving the restaurant. “Fucking mud-wrestling, dude.”

“It was fun,” Castiel says with a smile. “Don’t pretend you didn’t enjoy it.”

Dean doesn’t deny it but he does sigh and reach for the beer next to his bed. “Cas, you ever—?” But then his phone buzzes and he picks it up to read the message. He huffs a laugh that cuts off halfway through. Beer forgotten, he sits up straight. “Sonofabitch.”

“What?”

Dean doesn’t answer, turning his phone on its side to peer at something. 

Castiel gets up to join him, perching on the edge of Dean’s bed to look over his shoulder. “Dean, what is it?”

“Fuck,” Dean says softly, and hands Castiel the phone.

It’s the photo Dean took of him in the mud, but it’s zoomed in on something behind Castiel – on the opposite river bank. The resolution is poor, but clear enough to make out a shaggy, upright figure with curled horns, misshapen legs, and a distorted wormy-face – the true face of a demon. Castiel looks up. “That’s a _se’irim_ ,” he confirms.

“Right freakin’ there,” Dean says. His face has turned ashy. “Right there while we were fucking around.”

“It’s on the other side of the river.”

Dean stares at him like he’s stupid. “It’s next to a fucking _bridge_ , you dipshit.”

Castiel feels his heartbeat ratchet up a notch. “We were in some danger,” he concedes, and then remembers that he’s human and feels the bottom drop out of his stomach. That thing could have killed him right there and it would have all been over. No miraculous returns, just over.

But, worse, it could have killed Dean.

He’s known for a long time that he loves Dean, it’s a secret he’s been able to hide beneath the celestial intent of his grace, behind the righteousness of their endless causes, within their warrior’s bond. But that’s all gone now, he’s stripped bare and there’s no hiding from how _much_ he loves Dean Winchester; Castiel has died for him without hesitation, but this is the first time he truly understands that he would die _without_ him. 

“We should be more careful,” he says as he looks back at the photo. In his message next to the zoomed-in image Sam’s written, _I’m glad to see you guys having fun - so’s the monster, btw._

 __“I should’ve fucking _seen_ it!” Dean growls, pushing himself up from the bed.

“Neither of us did.”

“Well _I_ should’ve,” Dean snaps. “It’s on me. If anything had— Jesus.” He paces to the far side of the room and stands there staring at the wall. 

Castiel lets out a careful sigh and puts Dean’s phone down. “You’re not responsible for me, Dean. I’m—”

“The hell I’m not.” 

“You’re _not_.”

“I’m responsible for everyone I—” He bites off his words and runs a hand through his hair, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Daphne told me not to let you get hurt.”

He sounds so angry, so wretched, that Castiel has to suppress a sudden urge to— He doesn’t even know what, he’s so new to this. But he wants to touch, to comfort and _connect_ , and he can’t and that makes something ache deep down. Swallowing, he presses his hands onto his own knees instead and says, “I’m not hurt.” Then, to reassure himself, “Neither are you. Everything is fine.”

“It was just dumb luck.”

“Well,” Castiel says, “I guess we’re owed some of that.”

There’s a pause, then Dean snorts a reluctant laugh. “I guess,” he says, his shoulders sagging away from their taut line. “Maybe. But… _Christ_. It was right there, Cas.”

Castiel glances back at the phone, but the screen has gone black. “I suppose,” he says after a moment, “it’s actually quite funny.”

“Funny?” Dean turns to give him an incredulous glare.

“Being, um, ‘photo-bombed’ by one of Lucifer’s primal demons.”

Dean stares at him for another moment and then his mouth twitches into a smile, almost as if it’s against his will. “Cas,” he says with a shake of his head. “I—” He runs his fingers through his hair again, “You’re a— I mean, I—” He blows out a breath, dips his head, embarrassed. “I’m glad you’re here, man.” 

It feels like the sun just rose inside Castiel’s chest and he can’t bite back his stupid grin. “I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else,” he says. 

Which makes Dean bark out a wild-sounding laugh and reach again for the whiskey.


	5. Chapter 5

_Under heavy skies, the lake spreads wide and leaden. Boneyard trees haunt its banks, dipping skeletal fingers into black water._

_Cas stands knee-deep in the lake, dressed in his stupid Gas-n-Sip vest, reaching back toward him._ Don’t leave me here _, Cas says, panicked._ Dean, don’t leave me _._

I won’t, _he promises, but he’s trapped, he can’t escape the holy fire._ I don’t want to leave you _._

_Cas is moving now, turning around and wading out into the lake. Alone. His arms are spread wide and the water is rising up and up, past his shoulders._

Cas! _Dean’s running now, but he’s too slow. The water is like treacle, like ice. He can’t get through it. And Cas is looking up at him from beneath the surface with dead white eyes, his hair drifting black in the slow dark water of the lake._

“Cas!”

He wakes with a jolt to find Cas staring at him from close to the door, frozen in the act of returning to the room. He’s wearing running clothes and looks sweaty and freaked out.

“What?” Dean growls, trying to swallow down the nightmare’s bitter aftertaste.

“Are you okay?” 

Dean drops back onto the thin pillow and presses his hands over his eyes to try and rub the grit out. “Yeah. Bad dreams.”

“You said my name,” Cas says. “Well, shouted it actually.”

“Forget it.” Dean rolls out of bed and into the bathroom to end the conversation. He’s had that dream, or a variation on the theme, more times than he can count. Cas walking into the lake, Dean unable to stop him. Always too late to save him.

When he leaves the bathroom, Cas wordlessly hands him a coffee and heads in to shower. Dean’s grateful he doesn’t try to dig deeper, but he figures Cas probably has his own nightmares he’d like to keep private.

Sam calls while Dean’s getting dressed and laughs long and hard about the photo-bombing monster and about how Dean had obviously been ‘too distracted’ to notice. Then he geeks out over the whole _se’irim_ thing. “Call Cas, you nerd,” Dean grouses after Sam starts off on another of his rambling speculations, “I only know what he told me.”

Sam grumbles something under his breath in response, and then lightly says, “So – looks like you guys are getting on okay?”

Which Dean ignores in favor of asking how the research into Daphne is coming along. He keeps his voice low and one eye on the bathroom door. “Because I’m serious, man, there is definitely something shady going on.”

“Yeah,” Sam sighs, “you said. But Dean, I’m not finding anything. Strange women taking in homeless people and just, you know, _being nice to them_ isn’t really a thing.”

“It’s not just that,” Dean says, perching on the edge of the bed and sipping his coffee. “There’s a whole weird virgin thing too.”

A beat of silence follows. “Virgin thing?”

“Yeah, like—” He clears his throat. “They’re not, you know, doing it.”

A sigh huffs its way down the line. “ _Doing it_?” Sam echoes. “What, are you twelve?”

“Look, it’s freaky. I know she messed with his memory, probably stole his clothes – who knows why? – and now she’s insisting they don’t fucking, you know—”

“Fuck?” Sam says impatiently.

“Right. Not until they’re married – when they were _already married_ for, like, seven months. But, get this, they didn’t even do it then. Not once the whole time.”

He can hear from the quality of Sam’s disapproving silence that he’s not entirely convinced, but also that he’s not dismissing it out of hand. “Okay,” Sam says. “So we’re looking for, what, some kind of ritualistic thing, maybe? Possibly sacrificial? A fertility deity, perhaps. Although Cas did sleep with that Reaper, so he’s not strictly-speaking a virgin. In as much as that can ever really apply to a man.”

“Maybe Reapers don’t count,” Dean says darkly. He pretty much hates that after ten billion years, or whatever, of wearing his promise ring, Cas’s first and only intimate experience ended with him getting _murdered_.

And Dean hadn’t been able to stop that, either.

“Oh!” Sam says and Dean can almost hear his fingers click. “I know what I haven’t checked.”

“What?”

“Water deities. It’s possible, right? If she found Cas in the water?”

Dean rubs at his forehead and glances toward the bathroom door. The shower’s stopped running. “I dunno, do water deities drive SUVs and live in the suburbs?”

“Maybe,” Sam says. “I’ll check it out.”

After he’s hung up, Dean finishes dressing and busies himself putting a little product in his hair to avoid having to look at Cas wandering about in that freakin’ towel. This whole trip is proving tortuous in ways he’d not fully anticipated when he got in the car in Kansas and started driving; he’d forgotten that, as a human, Cas wouldn’t just perch in a chair all night in his trench coat. He’s almost tempted to book two rooms and go pick up something strings-free and easy once the hunt’s over, just to scratch the increasingly pressing itch.

He’s musing over the idea when he sees Cas watching him in the mirror. “What?” he says to Cas’s his reflection, the tension making him irritable.

Cas tips his head. “What are you doing to your hair?”

“It’s—” And now he feels like a girl and his ears are going hot. Embarrassed, he ruffles the stuff through his hair. “It just keeps it from, you know, looking like crap.”

In the mirror he sees Cas lift a hand to his own hair, still damp and lying flat against his forehead. “Can I try some?”

Dean’s about to crack wise about them not being here to braid each other’s hair when he’s struck by a sudden memory. Perhaps it’s the way Cas is looking up at him from where he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, or perhaps it’s the lingering sense of guilt from his dream – or from talking to Sam behind Cas’s back – but he’s reminded of the moment he told Cas to leave the bunker. Or, rather, the moments before that, when Cas had earnestly told him that he thought Dean and Sam would be good teachers, that they could teach him how to be human.

He’d fucked that up instantly and, really, isn’t this whole trip some attempt to make it right? To be the friend he wasn’t when Cas needed him? And maybe this is as much part of it as buying him his own clothes, giving him his own fake credit cards… He takes a breath, not so lacking in self-awareness that he doesn’t get why this is different, and says, “Sure.”

He throws the pot – apparently the stuff is called ‘putty’ – to Cas, who catches it and then stares at it in confusion. “Um, how—?”

“You get some on your hands, just a bit, rub them together and…” He gestures to Cas’s hair and finds his fingers itching to touch… He swallows. “Just, you know…”

Cas narrows his eyes as if to say _I don’t know, and this is humiliating enough so don’t make me fucking ask_.

Dean smiles. He can’t help it; it’s like being tugged over the edge of a cliff by gravity. “Like this,” he says, and tousles his fingers into Cas’s hair, heart hammering high in his throat.

Cas is just staring up at him and Dean thinks he’s going to bust something inside with the effort of not pushing him back onto the freakin’ bed and kissing the air from his lungs.

“Thank you,” Cas says at last, touching his hair and bumping Dean’s fingers.

It’s enough to break the spell, to make him drop his hand and step back as Cas peers past him into the mirror.

He smiles at his reflection. “I like that,” he says. “I look…”

Dean can think of several words, none of which he’ll say out loud.

“I look like I feel on the inside,” Cas says, and Dean’s not sure what to make of that. It’s one of those Cas things that has always made him smile and now makes him shake with how much he wants to— How much he just _wants_.

He goes to the bathroom to rinse the rest of the stuff off his hands and hopes the day’s hunt is brutal and bloody; he’s got some serious tension he needs to work off before it inflicts permanent damage.

***

Castiel still has his angel blade, but when they park by the bridge and Dean opens the trunk he hands Castiel a pistol and a serrated knife. “Just in case.”

He’d be lying if he denied he was nervous. This is the first time Castiel has hunted since the vampires and he’s acutely aware of his reduced capacity, of his frailty. It feels like going into a fight blind, with his hands tied behind his back, which only serves to increase his admiration for Dean and Sam. And all the other human hunters he’s met. This is how they approach every fight, vulnerable, under-powered and a heartbeat away from death. He licks his dry lips, tucks the knife into his belt and the pistol into the back of his jeans.

“You okay?” Dean asks, deadly serious.

“A little anxious,” Castiel confesses. “But I’ll be fine.”

Dean eyes him for a moment, as if weighing him, and then gives a curt nod. “Yeah, you will,” he says. “Now stay close. We watch each other’s backs out there, okay?”

“Always,” Castiel says.

Dean answers only with a look, meaningful but opaque to Castiel’s unpracticed eyes. “C’mon,” Dean says. “Let’s hunt.”

They pick up the trail at the river bank and follow it back into the woods. Neither of them are skilled enough trackers to estimate how fresh the tracks are, but after a couple hours the trees give way to a low ridge of rock and the trail disappears into a dark fissure within the buff. It’s pretty clear that the _se’irim_ has a lair.

“Crap,” Dean sighs, approaching with caution and keeping his voice low.  
“We should wait until nightfall,” Cas says, “and see if it comes out on its own. Most demons prefer the dark. A _se’irim_ especially, I imagine, since that’s where it came from _._ ”

“Nightfall?” Dean squints up at the sky through the trees. “That’s hours, man. We can’t sit around all day waiting for it to come out.”

“Why not?”

Dean glares. “Because.”

Which is hardly a satisfactory answer. “Dean—”

“Wait here,” he says, “I’m going in.”

“That’s reckless.”

“Yeah, well, I’m feeling pretty reckless today.” He pulls out Ruby’s knife and a small flashlight. “Maybe it’s sleeping and we’ll get the jump on it?”

Cas doesn’t bother to comment, just drops his angel blade into his hand and says, “I’m coming with you.”

“No.” Dean gives him an irritated look over his shoulder. “You wait here.”

“No.”

“Cas—”

He silences him with a look – it would hold more weight if he still had his grace to back it up, but it’s enough to get Dean’s mouth to snap shut.

“Fine,” Dean grumbles and slips through the fissure in the rock, Cas no more than a pace behind him.

They have to inch sideways between the rock for a good five feet, and the closed-in sensation makes Castiel’s breathing quicken. Ahead of him he can hear Dean’s slow deliberate breaths and realizes he’s using his breath to control his fear. Castiel tries to do the same. Human bodies are unruly, he’s coming to understand, and they need constant supervision.

As the fissure widens, it’s the stench that hits Castiel first. The air stinks of sulfur and animal, of death and decay.

“Jesus,” Dean murmurs up ahead and flicks on his flashlight.

They’re standing in a wide chamber, shadowed at the edges, filled with bones and dead things. Mostly they’re animal, but Castiel sees human remains among them. And there’s something else, a presence, dark and oppressive. Demonic. “It’s here,” Castiel says softly. “I can feel it.” He turns a slow circle, but the cavern appears to be empty. “This was a bad idea.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, backing up and into Castiel. “Yeah, we should—”

With a growl, the _se’irim_ erupts out of the darkness at the back of the chamber. It’s massive, at least seven feet tall, with wide shaggy shoulders. Its hooves clip on the stone floor, its eyes glowing red in the dark and its breath carries the stench of hell.

“Cas, get out!” Dean shoves him back toward the entrance as he draws the demon-killing blade.

Castiel doesn’t bother to argue, just steps sideways to present the creature with more than one target. He can tell this thing is primitive; it reminds him of the Leviathan, of the monsters of purgatory. And it’s ancient, older than most of the planet, Castiel thinks.

It snorts through its muzzle, baring fanged teeth and pawing at the ground with its hooves.

“Damnit, Cas,” Dean growls, moving away from him and drawing the _se’irim’s_ attention back to himself. It allows Cas to get behind it as Dean slowly circles away from the cavern entrance.

He has a shot at its back, but doesn’t know whether his angel blade will work. The hilt is slick in his hand; he’s sweating. But he firms his grip and inches closer, heart hammering. His whole body is shaking now. This is fear. This is human fear and he hates it, but he pushes on anyway. That’s what humans do.

The creature’s pelt is matted, the reek overwhelming as Castiel lifts his blade and strikes. He feels flesh give under the blade and the creature rears back, swings around with such force that it rips the blade out of Castiel’s hand. He stumbles back, slipping on the bones littering the floor as the _se’irim_ roars in his face. Castiel goes down hard, scrambles back as the creature advances, reaching for the knife in his belt.

“Hey, ugly!” Dean yells and the _se’irim_ swings away from Castiel, lashing at Dean with one massive arm. Dean flies back into the wall and crumples, motionless. The demon-killing blade spills from his fingers, clattering to the ground.

“Dean!” Castiel scrambles to his feet, but he can’t reach Dean; the _se’irim_ is between them and advancing. Its ember-red eyes burn into Castiel as if it recognizes him, as if it sees one of its own. Perhaps it does. Perhaps it recognizes something ancient in Castiel, something of Heaven. Some last vestige of what Castiel once was.

He risks a glance at Dean, but he hasn’t moved. Castiel feels his heart thump, cold and hard with dread. _Dean_. He pulls his pistol, chambers a round and fires.

The _se’irim_ baulks at the noise ricocheting around the cave but its advance doesn’t falter. Castiel isn’t surprised. He casts the gun aside, but the human blade Dean gave him will be even less useful. He’s effectively unarmed.

The _se’irim_ is going to kill him and then it’s going to kill Dean. If Sam comes looking for their bodies, it might kill him too.

He feels rock at his back; he’s run out of room to retreat. The _se’irim_ snorts, paws at the ground and roars.

Castiel is out of options.

***

There’s a blazing light at the back of Dean’s head, pulsing in time with his racing heartbeat. His stomach roils with nausea from the pain in his head, from the stench and raw fear. He blinks open his eyes, sees the ceiling tilting above him, light dancing oddly in his skewed vision.

“ _Zira piamos_.” Someone’s speaking, their voice all steel and smoke, but he can’t make sense of the words. _“Zira paidph piamos!_ ”

Dean pushes himself onto his knees, retches, wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. He can see Ruby’s knife a couple feet away, glinting amid rags and bones. The demon has its back to Dean, shifting on its creepy goat legs, and Cas’s fucking angel blade is sunk deep into the thing’s flesh. It’s swaying a little, like it’s transfixed. Dean gets his feet under him, forcing away the wave of dizzy nausea, and peers around the hulk of the creature to where Cas is standing against the wall.

He’s sideways on, one arm stretched toward the creature, palm out like he’s about to smite the bastard. And it’s _his_ voice Dean can hear.

“ _Zirdo adre_ ,” Cas growls. “ _Zirdo Castiel, ardre! Zira piamos._ ”

Except Cas doesn’t have any juice. The crazy bastard is _faking it_. He’s standing there balls-to-balls with a fucking primeval demon, threatening it in Enochian with nothing to back him up but his killer-death-glare. Not even his freakin’ blade.

Dean doesn’t know whether to be seriously pissed or seriously impressed. Mostly he’s seriously terrified.

Keeping low, he creeps over to Ruby’s knife and wraps his fingers around the hilt. It feels solid and good, even if the rest of the world is tilting and the lump on the back of his head is flashing neon into his brain.

Cas is still chanting away in Enochian, but the _se’irim_ is getting restless. It snorts, Cas raises his voice, braces his feet. “ _Zirdo Castiel, ardre!_ ” he shouts as the _se’irim_ takes a threatening step closer. “ _Zirdo_ —”

“Hey!” Dean yells, and the creature swings its massive head toward him. “Yeah,” Dean says, raising the knife. “Remember me?”

The fucker’s fast, swipes its hand down and into Dean’s wrist. He almost drops the knife. Almost.

“Dean!” Cas yells, and launches himself at the _se’irim_. It swats him like a fly. Dean’s stomach pitches as Cas slumps to the ground, but he doesn’t miss a beat. In the two seconds of distraction he plunges the knife into the demon’s chest.

For a moment nothing happens, the _se’irim_ just stares down at the blade and at Dean still clutching it in his hand. Then its ember eyes burn hotter, they spark flames that race out and through its nose, its mouth, rippling beneath its skin.

Dean yanks the knife out, stumbles back as the _se’irim_ falls to its knees and throws back its head. When it roars, it’s a blast furnace opening up to the ceiling. Dean flings himself toward Cas, covering him with his body as the flames lick up to the ceiling and wash back down the walls.

It’s twenty seconds of intense heat and then it’s over. The _se’irim_ pitches face first to the ground and Dean snatches breath into his scorched lungs.

But beneath him, Cas isn’t moving. Dean scrambles off him, onto his knees. “Cas?” He shakes his shoulders. Nothing. Cas’s head lolls to one side. “Cas, c’mon.” He’s got his face in his hands now, slapping at one cheek, heart crawling up into his throat. God, no. Not this. Not again. “Cas, wake up.”

And then Cas sucks in a breath, chokes, and practically coughs up a lung. Dean’s so relieved he laughs despite the way his head’s pounding. “Thank God,” he breathes, sagging limp against Cas’s back and pressing his hand between his shoulder blades while Cas hacks away at his lungs.

“Did you—?” Cas gasps when he’s caught his breath. “Is it dead?”

“Toast,” Dean says, hauling himself to his feet, using Cas’s shoulder as leverage.

Cas looks up at him, chest heaving. “That was close.”

“No shit,” Dean says, and offers Cas a hand up. He takes it, wrapping his strong fingers around Dean’s arm and letting him pull him to his feet. They stand there for a moment, toe to toe, hands clasped around each other’s arms. After a long beat, Dean says, “You okay?”

Cas nods. “I think so. Are you?”

Dean winces, touches the back of his head. “Nothing a beer won’t solve.”

“Unlikely,” Cas says, with a frown, but doesn’t comment any further. Instead he drops Dean’s arm and moves toward the body of the _se’irim_. Crouching next to it, he pulls his blade free and then lays a hand on the creature’s scorched pelt.

“I can’t believe you tried to fake it out, man,” Dean says. “That was…” He can’t help the bite of laughter. “That was awesome.”

Cas gives a little half-smile, one hand still on the _se’irim_. “I was out of options and I knew – I _hoped_ – it would respond to… to what I once was. It’s primal enough to simply follow instructions, to not fully understand that I’m not an angel anymore.”

Dean doesn’t miss the wistful tone in his voice, the way his hand is moving almost like he’s petting the damn thing. “Cas, c’mon…”

He glances up, his eyes more otherworldly than they’ve looked in a long time. “This is a creature of the Darkness, Dean. It was very ancient and it lived a long time on Earth, alone. My brother plucked it from the Darkness against its will. I think it was glad to return.”

“But you can’t,” Dean says, filling in the blanks. “You can’t go back to…the light, to heaven. Wherever.”

“No.” Cas says, and drops his attention back to the creature. “I can never go back.” He takes a breath, moves his hand away and sits back on his heels. “On the plus side, I don’t live in a filthy cave and eat lost hikers.”

Dean feels his lips twitch into a smile. “No,” he says. “There’s that.” Cas pushes to his feet and suddenly he’s standing too close, close enough that Dean could— Not that he would. He clears his throat. “Listen, uh, thanks, man. If you hadn’t kept it busy like that we’d have both been on the menu tonight.”

“Well,” Cas says, “if you hadn’t stabbed it when you did…”

“And that,” Dean says, because he’s basically a self-righteous ass, “is why you never hunt alone.”

He’s expecting an irritable huff, but what he gets is a serious nod and a clap on the shoulder. “I know, Dean. It’s always best to hunt with a friend.” Cas is looking at him intently and then he pulls him into a rough, awkward hug. “I’m glad you’re okay,” he says close to Dean’s ear. “When you fell I was afraid—” His voice goes jagged and shaky. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

“Yeah.” Dean knocks his fist against Cas’s back in a suitably manly fashion, compensating for the way his heart is hammering. “You too, buddy,” he says and can’t keep his face from tilting so that his words are muffled in Cas’s hair. “You too.”

Cas sucks in a deep breath and they stand like that for a long time in the gloom of the cave. And Dean thinks it might be worth all the crap that would rain down on him just to take Cas’s face in his hands, just to kiss him and to hell with the consequences.

But he doesn’t, of course. He’s not that guy and neither is Cas. Wanting something doesn’t mean you can have it and there ain’t nothing in his life that hasn’t taught him that lesson a dozen times over.

“We’re okay, Cas,” he says, and wills it to be true. “We’re alright.”

***

Castiel drives. He’s fairly certain that Dean is concussed, even though Dean assures him that he’s fine and refuses to allow Castiel to take him to hospital.

“Seriously,” he says as he slips into the passenger seat and closes his eyes, “I just need some Tylenol and a rest.”

There’s Tylenol in the first aid kit Dean keeps in the trunk, and Castiel makes him swallow a couple before they start driving. He heads north, through the city of San Antonio, and out the other side. The road signs are confusing – he doesn’t recognize any of the place names – but he doesn’t want to wake Dean, so he just keeps heading north and figures it must be mostly the right direction.

By the time they’d returned to the Impala it had been early afternoon. Now the sun is high and strong and the air is pleasant. It’s not hot, but it’s warm on his skin – he rolls down the window and fishes out his sunglasses. Dean sleeps on, his hair tousled by the wind. There’s a bruise developing on his cheekbone and Castiel can still smell the _se’irim_ on both of them. Perhaps they should have stopped at the motel first, to shower and change? Perhaps they’ll stop at another tonight instead. He hopes they do. Now the hunt’s over, this trip with Dean is almost over too and he’ll have to go back to his life with Daphne. His calm, ordered and predictable life with Daphne.

His fingers tighten on the steering wheel, something tightening harder in the pit of his stomach.

He doesn’t want to go back to that, he wants to stay here. Right here in the car, with the sun on his skin and the wind fluttering in Dean’s hair.

He wants… That moment in the cave, when he’d held Dean close and warm— He wants that, he wants that always. He wants to feel that bond, that energy running between them like shared heat, like blood. He wants to be with Dean, to always be with Dean. But he doesn’t know how. It’s impossible. Besides, he has Daphne. He’s made a promise to Daphne that he can’t break.

But the thought of watching Dean drive away again, of Dean leaving him behind in Aurora…

The thought closes up his throat, robs the day of his brilliance and he has to force himself to unwind. Today, they’re still on the road. Today, they’re still together.

Ahead, something gleams in the afternoon sunlight. It takes a while for his human eyes to realize it’s a lake. The road ahead bears left, but the lake is to the right and on impulse Castiel leaves the highway and takes a smaller road toward the water. The streets are empty, a few houses set back amid low scrubby trees and brush, and he keeps on driving toward the blue gleam of the lake. Eventually it opens up before him and he sees a parking lot with a pickup truck parked at one end and pulls in.

Dean wakes up when the engine stops, blinking sleepily. He still looks in pain. “Where are we…?”

“It’s a lake,” Castiel tells him and climbs out of the car.

The air is warm and dry. He imagines this place would be blistering in the summer, but today it’s very agreeable. He’s not cold in just his shirt worn loose over a t-shirt and the sunglasses keep the glare out of his eyes.

Dean blinks at him as he climbs out of the car, winces a little and touches his hand to the back of his head. “What lake?”

Castiel shrugs. “A big one.” There’s a path with a sign that says ‘To the lake’ and Castiel indicates it with a nod. “Let’s take a look.” He heads off and a few moments later he hears the car door slam and Dean’s heading after him. He’s carrying a blanket, the cooler, and a packet of bagels.

“Snacks,” he says as he catches up.

Castiel takes the cooler from him and they walk on for a few more minutes until the trees part and they find themselves on a thin strip of beach by the side of the lake. There are a couple of picnic benches in the shade of the trees, but no people. “Oh,” Castiel says. “This is…unexpected.”

“Yeah?” Dean looks at him with a smile. “What did you think would be down here?”

He shrugs, obviously having failed to pick up on the clues. “It’s nice,” he says and heads down onto the sand.

They walk on for a while, then Dean says, “Dude, I need to crash.” When Castiel looks back, Dean’s spread the blanket out on the sand in the shade of the tree line and is kicking off his shoes and socks. “This was an awesome idea,” Dean says, settling back onto the blanket with his eyes closed.

Castiel smiles and sits down next to him. “Yes, a serendipitous discovery.”

“Hah,” Dean snorts. “Yeah, that.”

He drifts off to sleep pretty fast and Castiel worries for a while that it’s because of the head injury, that maybe he should insist they find a doctor. But then he reminds himself that Dean has been human a lot longer than him, and he’s been hunting almost all his life. If he says he’s okay, he probably is. So he concentrates instead on watching the boats on the water, gleaming in the sun as they leave and return to the little marina further down the shore. The sky is very blue, a few high clouds scudding past, and the trees are full of birdsong.

It’s very beautiful, his father’s creation. He wonders, not for the first time, how He could bear to leave it.

He rests his arms on his knees and relishes the hot sun and warm breeze. But he can still smell the _se’irim_ on his skin, on his hands where he’d touched its pelt, and he suddenly wants to be clean of its taint. Getting up, he walks across the sand to the lake, crouches down and runs his fingers through the water. It’s cool, but not cold, and feels silky smooth as it laps around his bare feet.

It would be glorious, he thinks, to feel it all over his skin. That cool, clean water could wash away the taint of Hell. He glances along the little strip of beach, but there’s no one around and no indication that you aren’t allowed to swim. On impulse, he strips off his jeans, his shirt and t-shirt, and drops them in the sand away from the water. Then he walks into the lake, the sand soft underfoot, and the water cool – colder than it had seemed at first as he walks deeper. Not cold enough to stop him though. The sensation is delicious, with the sun on his face, on the bare skin of his back and shoulders. He gasps a little as the water rises over his stomach, lets his fingers trail in the water, wide at his sides, and then he sinks forward and under. The water tugs at his hair, washing out the stench of the _se’irim_.

It feels wonderful.

***

_Under heavy gray skies, the lake spreads wide and leaden. Boneyard trees haunt its edges, dipping skeletal fingers into the water, and Dean stands on the shore in a circle of holy fire. Beyond the flames, Cas is up to his knees in the water and reaching out toward Dean._

Help me _, he says._ Dean, please _._

_But he can’t help him; the flames have him trapped. And Cas is walking away from him now, deeper into the water._

Cas, stop!

 _He doesn’t. He keeps on walking with his arms spread wide as the water rises over his head, hair floating out black under the lake, and he looks up from beneath the surface with dead white eyes._ Cas!

Dean jerks up out of the dream. Only it isn’t a dream, because Cas is in the water, tipping forward and under, his hair floating black beneath the surface.  
Dean’s on his feet and running before he’s fully awake, plunging after him, catching hold of his arm and hauling him to the surface. “Cas!”

Cas struggles, panicking, sucks in a breath and lashes out blind. His fist connects with Dean’s shoulder, knocking him sideways and into the water.

“ _Dean_?” Cas coughs, as he flounders.

Dean’s gasping for air, bewildered in his half-dream. Or not a dream.

“Dean,” Cas says again, standing waist deep in the water with wet hair dripping into his eyes and his chest heaving. “What’s the matter?”

“I was—” He sucks in another breath, but it’s not enough to hide his embarrassment. Or his anger. “Christ, Cas, what the fuck are you doing?”

“Swimming,” Cas says, indignant. “What are _you_ doing?”

“I was— Fuck.” He stalks out of the lake, legs stiff in sodden denim. Cas trails after him; he can hear him splashing through the water.

Back on the beach, Dean strips off his shirt and t-shirt and flings them angrily into the sand. He feels stupid, but his heart is pounding fit to give him a freakin’ aneurism. “I thought you were—” He cuts himself off. “Doesn’t matter.”

For a long moment he just stands there, catching his breath, watching the water drip onto his feet. “Fuck,” he says again and pushes a hand through his wet hair.

Cas says nothing, but Dean can practically hear him thinking, so it’s no surprise when he says, “Were you dreaming?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Another pause, then a tentative hand on his bare back. Dean shivers and hopes Cas thinks it’s the cold. “I’m sorry if I alarmed you.”

Dean squeezes shut his eyes. “It’s not you.” Although it is, it _really_ fucking is.

Cas doesn’t move his hand, leaves it on Dean’s back while he says, “You dream about… about that reservoir?”

He just says, “Yeah.”

Cas moves his hand, his thumb stroking in a slow arc. “I didn’t know.”

“Why would you?”

“I didn’t— Of all the things you’ve endured, I didn’t imagine that would—”

“Ha!” Dean turns around so fast that Cas’s fingers trail over his ribs before his has time to lower his hand. “You didn’t think that watching you—” He breaks off when he realizes Cas is standing there in nothing but his underwear. “Jesus, Cas,” he growls and fixes his eyes on the lake. “You didn’t think watching you _die_ would bother me?”

“You hated me then.”

“I didn’t— I never hated you. I was angry.”

“Yes,” he says quietly. “I remember your anger.” He shivers; he must be freezing standing there wet and practically naked.

“Put some freakin’ clothes on, man,” Dean says.

Cas looks like he’s going to ignore him, but then changes his mind and nods. Dean turns away while Cas pulls his clothes on, shivering in the springtime breeze. He feels like an idiot, but the panic is still there humming under his skin. The fear of losing Cas is intense, different to the dread weight of responsibility he feels around Sam. This is a brighter fear, red-raw and panicked. Perhaps it’s the hunt that has brought on this terror, the sight of Cas unconscious on the floor of that cave. Or perhaps it’s because his feelings for Cas are concentrating, intensifying with every hour they spend together. Or perhaps he’s felt like this for years, he just hasn’t let the feelings out of their locked box in a long time. Not since Cas betrayed him. Not since he watched him die.

“Dean?” Cas says his name like he’s repeating himself and Dean glances over to see him standing there in his jeans and t-shirt, holding out his over shirt. “Put this on for now, I’ll go and get you some dry clothes from the car.”

“Cas—”

“I’ll just be a few minutes,” he says, and heads back up the trail. Dean slips the shirt on and pretends it doesn’t affect him, that the feel of Cas’s shirt on his bare skin doesn’t touch him in all the ways it shouldn’t. It’s a pretty thankless exercise and he gives it up after a few minutes, sits down in the sand in his wet jeans, and hugs his arm and the shirt around his body; this thing he feels for Cas is skidding out of control. Something’s got to give and he’s afraid it might end up being their friendship. And then he’d lose him completely.

The best thing, he decides, is to get this over with – to push on tonight and get back to Colorado by morning. End this trip before he does something stupid and fucks things up irrevocably.

It’s a good plan. It lasts until Cas emerges at the head of the trail with his hair drying every which-way and those fucking knock-off Aviators making him look utterly— Dean has to swallow as he stands up, breathe deep to keep from just—

“Here,” Cas says, handing over Dean’s clothes. Then he smiles, tips his head. “That shirt looks good on you, you should keep it.”

Dean’s voice is rough as he says, “It’s yours, man.”

With a shrug, Cas just takes the shirt in Dean’s hands and says, “I’ll wear this one.” He shrugs it on and now they’re wearing each other’s clothes and if Dean didn’t know it was impossible, he’d think Cas was flirting with him. Although the fact that he’s not, that this is just Cas, makes him even harder to resist.

Cas retreats to the blanket, stretches himself out with his hands behind his head and that little strip of inked skin on show again. Dean’s hands are actually shaking as he pulls off his jeans. It’s lucky he’s so cold or things could be getting even more awkward.

Once he’s dressed he clears his throat and wads up his wet clothes. “Ah, Cas? We should hit the road. I wanna get back to Colorado by morning.”

Cas frowns, props himself up on his elbows. “You do? Why?”

“Because, ah… I just do, okay.”

It’s no reason at all and Cas isn’t a freakin’ moron. His gaze turns forensic. “This is because of what happened. Your dream.”

“What? No.”

“Dean…”

“It’s just— let’s just go, okay?”

“Being around me disturbs you,” Cas says, and there’s so much weight in his words, such sadness, that Dean can’t help saying,

“No. No, it’s not that…” With a sigh he drops down on the blanket next to Cas, arms propped on his knees as he stares out at the lake. “It’s my problem, okay? It’s…” He shakes his head. “I can’t explain it.”

“Why not?”

He laughs. “Because I just can’t, okay? Trust me. It would— It would be a bad idea.”

Cas sits up next to him, so close their shoulders brush and Dean’s not even strong enough to move away; he wants this, to be close to Cas.

“I miss Purgatory,” Cas says, which is about the last thing Dean expects to hear. “Things were honest between us there.”

And it’s true; it was in Purgatory that Dean came to understand the truth of his feelings for Cas. There wasn’t room for ambiguity in a place where the space between life and death was so stark. He looks at Cas, his face golden in the late afternoon sunlight, and with a bitter sigh thinks, _You’re beautiful_. Perhaps it’s that bitterness that makes him say, “Honest, except for the part where you never intended to leave.”

Cas presses his lips together and Dean regrets his words immediately.

“Cas—”

“No, you’re right. Even there, I was hiding things from you. I— I do that a lot.” He sighs. “It always seems like a good idea at the time.”

Dean has no reply to offer and they both gaze out in silence over the lake. The sun is low in the sky now, its golden light spilling across the surface of the water. After a while, Cas reaches over to pull a couple of beers from the cooler and hands one to Dean. “We should watch the sunset,” he says, nodding to the liquid gold on the horizon. “We should do that before we leave.”

Dean snorts a laugh, pretty confident Cas has no clue about the romantic connotations of his suggestion. “Really? Should we hold hands too?”

Cas is quiet for a moment, then says, “Did you know that I’ve witnessed every single sunrise and sunset on Earth?” He glances at Dean, but his eyes are hidden behind his sunglasses and Dean can’t work out what he’s feeling. “In approximately five billion years there will be one last perfect sunset on Earth before the sun begins to die. I always imagined I’d see that final sunset. But now I know I won’t. I might never see the sun set again, Dean.”

“Woah,” Dean says with a smile that’s fonder than he’d like. “That’s heavy, dude.”

Cas turns back to the lake and to the sun sinking low on the horizon. “We could have died today,” he says, taking a long pull on his beer. “We might have never lived to see this sunset. Don’t you think it’s worth taking an hour to enjoy it?”

“I guess,” Dean says and opens his beer, drains half of it in a couple of long swallows. “Treat every day like your last, huh? It ain’t a bad philosophy. Especially in this line of work.”

“Yes,” Cas says, thoughtful. “Yes, I like that idea. Treat every day as if it were your last.”

They sit in silence again after that, shoulders pressed together, and Dean finds himself willing the sun to set slowly. He can’t even remember the last time he just stopped like this, took the time to simply enjoy the moment. He finishes his beer and starts on a second, handing Cas another. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he realizes he’s not driving back to Colorado tonight. For better or worse, Cas has him tethered. He’s had him tethered for years.

“What would you do?” Cas says eventually. “If this was your last day.”

Dean laughs around the mouth of the bottle. “Dangerous question, Cas.”

“Is it?” The sun’s right on the horizon now, but Cas pulls off his sunglasses to fix Dean with one of his intense angel gazes. “Why’s it dangerous?”

Dean finds he can’t look away. “Because I’d probably do something reckless,” he says. With the beer buzzing under his skin, the golden light burnishing Cas’s skin, he feels reckless. He thinks he might just do it, the thing he wants, the thing burning him up from the inside.

Cas nods. “Something you wouldn’t ordinarily do because it would have…unpredictable consequences?”

“Right.”

“I understand.” He looks away again, but his fingers are picking at the label on the beer and his brow is creased in thought. “I feel— Until I was human, my existence was eternal. Every action had eternal consequences, so I was careful to measure my behavior.”

“Not all the time,” Dean reminds him with a smile.

Cas gives a soft laugh, a vulnerably human sound that tightens in the center of Dean’s chest. “Believe me, I gave a great deal of thought to my decision to rebel, Dean. More than perhaps you realized at the time.”

“Probably,” Dean concedes. “Back then I didn’t know you too well.”

Cas is silent and drains his second beer. The sun is sinking below the horizon now and the air is cooling into an early spring evening. Dean wishes he had his jacket. “For me,” Cas says quietly, “this feels like it could be my last day.”

“What?” Dean he hates how his heart thumps at even the allusion to that. “Shut up.”

“I just mean, in comparison to my previous existence, a mortal life feels short. It…” He hesitates. “It makes me feel reckless.”

Dean glances over and finds Cas watching him, something of his old celestial intent bright in his eyes. Dean’s mouth turns dry and all he says is, “Oh.”

“Tomorrow you’ll leave me in Colorado,” Cas says. “I might— We might never meet again.”

“Sure we will,” Dean says weakly. “I’m coming to the wedding, remember?”

“You could die. On your next hunt, you could die.”

“Dude, c’mon—”

“Or in a road traffic accident.”

“Hey,” he objects. “Baby is _not_ gonna buy it in a car crash, Cas.”

“Then maybe I will. Or maybe another angel will find me. Maybe tomorrow. Or next week.”

“Cas—”

“My point is,” Cas says, “that human lives are short and dangerous. And maybe we should live every day like our last. We should watch every sunrise and every sunset, we should eat pancakes and not granola, we should—” He swallows and Dean tracks the movement of his throat, the way Cas moistens his lips and looks at Dean’s mouth. “We should be reckless, Dean.”

“Okay,” he says, heart kicking against his ribs because surely Cas can’t mean… He swallows and says, “Reckless, huh? You wanna… what? Go skinny dipping? Dance naked in—”

“I want to do this,” Cas says, and leans forward to kiss him.

Cas _kisses_ him.

And then he’s is on his feet, walking back toward the head of the trail and it takes Dean a good couple of seconds to recover enough to follow, to grab his arm and stop him. “Wait,” he says. “Cas, wait.”

He turns, looks at Dean with wild eyes and an expression somewhere between alarm and laughter. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“Shut up,” Dean says, taking his face in his hands and kissing him right back. It’s strange and glorious. And when Cas responds, curls his fingers into Dean’s hair and pulls him close, it’s like the fourth of fucking July inside his head. He’s flying and falling and this has to be a dream, this has to be a fucking dream.

Eventually Cas pulls back, one hand braced on Dean’s shoulder, breathless. “Dean – do you _want_ this?”

“You have no idea.”

“I _had_ no idea,” Cas agrees, wide-eyed. “I thought— I had no idea, Dean. How long have—?”

Dean cuts him off with another kiss; it’s so much easier than talking. He doesn’t know how to talk about this stuff, he doesn’t want to. He just wants to feel. Cas gets the message, crowds in reckless and urgent. Hungry, like he wants everything all at once. Like he’s ravenous. “Dean,” he growls against the bolt of his jaw, breathing the words into his skin. “ _Dean_.”

Things, Dean realizes, are about to get out of hand very fast. “Cas,” he gasps. “Cas, wait. Slow down.”

“No.” And he means it; Cas is fucking insistent, his hands slipping under Dean’s shirt, skimming over his back. “Dean, don’t stop. Please.”

“Cas.” He laughs, stepping back and away. “Dude, we need to take this someplace else.”

“What? Why?”

“Because we can’t— We can’t do this here. We’ll get arrested or something.”

Cas shakes his head, presses closer, lips brushing Dean’s skin as he says, “Dean, please, if we stop we might never—”

“C’mon,” Dean says, stepping back again, cupping Cas’s face in both hands and holding him where he can look him in the eye. “Cas, it’s okay,” he says, stroking a thumb over his cheekbone, calming him. “We’re not gonna die between here and a motel, dude.”

Cas still looks wild, but swallows hard. “Okay,” he says at last. “Yes, okay.” He gives a skittish laugh, and really Dean should have known then that something was wrong.

But it’s not until they’ve grabbed their stuff, hauled ass to the first motel they can find, that Dean starts to suspect. He checks in as fast as possible, snatches the key and heads back to the car where Cas is leaning on the hood, waiting.

Waiting for him with his phone in his hand, frowning down at the screen.

Dean ignores it despite the way his heart jumps with unease, smiles and says, “Okay?”

Cas looks at him and nods.

“Okay,” Dean says, and leads the way into their room, hands shaking with want and nerves as he unlocks the door. He can’t believe this is happening; he can’t believe it’s happening _right now_.

The room is as average as average can be, but Dean doesn’t even notice. The moment the door closes, he presses Cas against it, kissing the frown off his face, off his lips. A thousand times he’s wanted to do this, and now he can. Now he _is_ and it’s breathtaking. Everything he feels for Cas – the fond affection, the tender need – rushes out of the place where he’s kept it locked down for so long. It’s fucking terrifying, but he can do this for Cas. He can; he _wants to_. “You blow my mind,” he says softly. “You blow my freakin’ mind, Cas.”

And for a moment it’s wonderful, Cas curls his hand around the back of Dean’s neck, his kiss soft and fervent and then…

And then he stops.

Then he pushes Dean away with shaking hands. “Dean,” he says, rasping his name. “Dean, I _can’t_.”

It feels like a punch to the solar plexus; he can’t catch his breath. “What…?”

“It’s— This is wrong.”

He wants to say _no, this is perfect_ , but there are so many ways it’s wrong that Dean can’t argue. He just sucks in a breath and tries to get his rampant emotions under control. He knows that Cas has always been too good for him, that he deserves so much better than this – than him – but he’s shivering with frustration, with desire and shame and anger.

Yes, anger.

He clings to that, because it’s the one emotion he knows how to handle. “Jesus Cas,” he grinds out, turning away and heaving in a breath. “You can’t just lead a guy—”

“Daphne,” Cas blurts. “I’m marrying Daphne and I can’t—”

“ _Daphne_?” Dean wants to laugh. Or throw up. Fucking _Daphne_? He whirls back around and Cas is still backed up against the door, watching Dean with aching eyes. “You’re kidding me, right?”

“This— This is _betraying_ her,” Cas says, like maybe Dean doesn’t get it. “And I owe her better than that. I owe her so much.”

“Cas—”

“She _saved me_ , Dean. I had no one else and she saved me.”

 _No one else?_ “Right,” Dean says. “Okay.” And it’s easier with his anger rising to lock down the hurt, to shut it up in that place where he keeps all those betrayals and abandonments that have poisoned his life. He should have known better than to think any of this was real.

“I should never have—” Cas starts, then shakes his head. “What I did was a mistake.”

And maybe he knows that Cas looks wretched, but it’s easier to think that he just looks cruel – the indifferent dick-angel he’s probably always been. “Yeah, you’re right,” Dean says, making a hammer of his hurt. “It _was_ a mistake.”

Cas bows his head. “I’m sorry.”

And really all Dean wants to do then is get the fuck out of there. He wants to put a thousand miles between himself and Cas, to drag his shame and hurt along behind him on the highway until it’s tattered and broken and he’s free of it all. “You’re always fucking sorry, Cas,” he snarls, letting his anger lash out. “And yet you _still_ fuck everything up.”

Pushing past him, Dean wrenches open the door, but Cas grabs hold of his shirt to stop him leaving. “Dean, please.”

But Cas is only human now and when Dean shoves him away he stumbles backward. “Just stay the hell away from me,” Dean growls and slams the door behind him.


	6. Chapter 6

Dean had intended to drive, but ended up drinking.

Not enough to forget, but enough to let him smile and seduce. Enough that when he staggers back to the room he has Stacey (or Tracey?) in his arms, has her pinned against the back of the door before it’s even closed. 

She’s all warm curves and tequila-fueled indifference, but he doesn’t care. He just wants to drown his hurt so deep he’ll never feel it again and he doesn’t care if he drowns himself in the process.

“Dean?”

“Holy crap!” Stacey shrieks.

Dean smiles, feeling a vindictive curl of pleasure at the sight of Cas rising slowly from the bed. 

“Dean, what are you doing?”

“Getting laid. What does it look like?” It should feel better than this, Dean thinks. Vengeance should feel more satisfying. Maybe it would be if the sight of Cas looking lost and confused didn’t twist a knot into the pit of his stomach. He fucking hates how much that look makes him ache. 

Stacey slips out of his arms. “The fuck is going on?” she hisses, wobbling drunken on her heels.

“Nothing,” Cas mumbles, averting his eyes as he grabs his coat. “I’m just leaving.”

Dean tries to laugh, but it comes out choked. “You should get another room,” he says as Cas storms past. “Here, take…” He fumbles for his wallet. “Take a credit card…”

Cas yanks open the door, those soulful eyes of his full of hurt. “I don’t want your money, Dean,” he says. And then he’s gone.

“Who the hell was that?” Stacey says as she shuts the door behind him.

“No one,” Dean says, the lie heavy as lead in his chest. “Doesn’t matter. We’re still gonna have a good time tonight, huh?”

They don’t; it’s one of the worst nights of Dean’s life. 

The crappy sex does nothing to ease the painful knot in his chest and in the end he drinks himself senseless just to stop hurting. Even that doesn’t work.

When he wakes, he’s miserable and alone. And thank fuck for that. He doesn’t need any witnesses to this pathetic morning-after-the-night-before.

Staggering into the bathroom he stands under the shower until he’s washed all traces of Tracey – or was it Stacey? – down the drain. He only feels marginally better for being rid of her. 

He dresses in the cleanest clothes he can find, shoving Cas’s shirt – the one he’d been wearing yesterday – into the bag Cas left on the floor. Then he sits on the edge of the bed, head in his hands, and gives himself five minutes to feel fucking wretched.

Cas doesn’t want him. Or maybe he does, but he wants Daphne more because Daphne _saved him_ when Dean screwed him over. So Cas is going to marry Daphne. And that’s it. That’s all there is to it. 

Except that it’s not. Except that last night he’d unlocked something inside himself, let it run wild, and now he can’t put it back. He _loves_ Cas. Proper gut-wrenching, knee-buckling love. And now he feels like he’s been gutted, like a freakin’ werewolf has ripped out his heart, and that’s not an exaggeration. Actual evisceration would be preferable to this horrible emptiness, and he’d sure as hell know.

He sucks in a breath, it shudders wetly in his throat and he’s glad he’s alone. Thank God Sam’s not here to emo all over him. He sits up, wipes his damp eyes, and pulls on his game face. Last night was last night. They won’t talk about it. He’ll drop Cas home, drive back to the bunker and lose a week in his room with his old friend Jack Daniels.

Then he’ll go hunt something dangerous and see if he can’t get his freakin’ heart ripped out before he has to watch Cas and Daphne tie the knot.

Two more breaths and he’s steady, grabs their bags and heads out to the car. To where he left the car. 

“The _fuck_?” He looks around, but it’s gone. The lot is practically empty and Baby is fucking _gone_.

He scrabbles in his pocket for his phone. There are five messages from Sam. One from Cas, sent at five in the morning. Dean’s stomach drops in a nasty, swooping dive as he opens it. 

_Your car is at the bus station in Austin. For what it’s worth, I’m very sorry for everything._

__And that’s all. That’s _all_. “Fuck,” Dean snarls, somewhere between angry and terrified, and dials Cas right back. It rings out and goes to voicemail. He’s probably screening his calls. Dean texts: _Don’t leave._ There’s no reply. He wants to punch something. 

Instead, he locates the fastest looking car in the lot and steals it. That’s someone else’s morning screwed, but needs must. It’s over an hour to Austin, so it’s almost eleven before he reaches the bus station.

He finds the Impala close by, undamaged. There are a few busses waiting to leave, but none of them are heading for Colorado and there’s no sign of Cas. Frustrated, he tries calling again but there’s still no answer. When he asks at the desk, he’s told that the bus for Colorado Springs left at six a.m. and that there isn’t another one until the next day.

Which means Cas has gone already – was on the bus before Dean even woke up. _Fuck_.

On the way back to the car, his phone starts ringing. He almost drops it, trying to answer too fast. “Cas?”

There’s a pause. “It’s Sam. Dude, I’ve been trying to call you since yesterday.”

Crap. “Yeah, sorry.”

“Everything okay? I haven’t heard from you since you checked in after the hunt.”

Dean rubs a hand through his hair. The sun’s bright and he reaches for his sunglasses, stomach twisting at the memory of Cas smiling at him from behind his Aviators. Crap, he’s so freakin’ screwed. 

“Dean?” Sam says again. “Are you okay?” 

He Dean huffs out a sigh, pulls open the driver’s door, and slips behind the wheel. “I’m good.” It’s a blatant lie, there’s no way Sam won’t know. “What do you need?”

Another pause, before Sam says, “Well, it turns out you might be right.”

“About what?”

“Daphne, dude. What did you think?”

He sits up straight. “Shit. Really? She’s a witch?”

“No. I’ve done some digging and I think she’s a naiad – a kind of water nymph. I – I’m actually kinda embarrassed I didn’t get it from the name.” When Dean doesn’t respond, Sam adds, “Daphne was the naiad pursued by Apollo in ancient Greek mythology?”

“Okay,” Dean says. “I don’t care about that. What does she want with Cas?”

“Well, that’s what I’m not sure about. According to the lore, Daphne was a committed, uh, virgin and was trying to escape the attentions of Apollo. She prayed to her father, the river god Ladon, who turned her into a tree in order to preserve her virginity.”

Dean frowns, rubs at the headache forming at the back of his head. “So… I don’t get it. Cas is, what? She’s going to turn him into a tree?”

“I don’t know,” Sam says. “But I think we need to keep him away from her until we find out.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees. “You, uh, you should call him. Let him know.”

“Me?” Sam says. “You’re literally with him.” He pauses. “Aren’t you?”

Dean sighs, squints out over the asphalt to the line of buses. “Not exactly.”

“Not exactly?”

“He’s – I think he’s on a bus to Colorado. Maybe.”

Sam’s silence is frosty. “Dean, what happened?”

“Doesn’t matter, okay? Just call him and tell him to stay away from Daphne. Tell him—” His chest aches with how much he wants to be able to tell him this himself, but of course he can’t. He burned that bridge months ago. “Tell him to come home. To the bunker.”

“I think you should—”

“He’s not answering my calls, okay?” He closes his eyes, tries to clear the roughness from his voice. “I’m a jerk, Sam. Just call him.” 

He hangs up and sits in silence, thinking over this new twist in the tale. Daphne is shady, just like he always knew. Which means Cas isn’t gonna be playing happy families with her. Which means…

There’s a bitter taste in his mouth when he remembers Stacey, remembers Cas’s face – that hurt, lost look before he’d gotten angry. Before he’d left, fled with nothing but the clothes on his back, and gone home to Colorado. Home to Daphne. 

If Dean hadn’t been such a fucking jerk, Cas would be right here. He could have told him in person, broken the truth about Daphne and assured Cas it wasn’t just freaky supernatural creatures that wanted him. That _he_ wanted him. And then he could have—

“Fuck.” He slams his fist into the steering wheel. It hurts, but not enough. He makes to hit it again when his phone rings. He snatches it up, heart sinking when he realizes it’s not Cas. Or anyone else. It’s not even _his_ phone that’s ringing.

He looks around until he tracks the ringing down to the glove box. Inside is Cas’s phone, flashing with two missed calls. Heart in his throat, Dean turns it over in his hands. There’s no way to contact Cas, no way to warn him. No way to find out where he is.

He snatches up his own phone, dials Sam. “You have to get to the bus station in Colorado Springs,” he says, before Sam can speak. “You’re closer than me. Keep Cas away from her, Sam.”

There’s only a brief pause before Sam says, “Okay. I’m on my way.” And thank God he doesn’t ask any more questions.

Dean throws the car into gear and hits the road. 

***

Despite hours of dozing with his head against the window, cushioned by his folded coat, Castiel is exhausted by the time the bus rolls into Colorado Springs at almost one in the morning. He hasn’t slept properly since the night before the hunt, which feels like forever ago, because whenever he closes his eyes all he sees is Dean. 

The worst thing about it is that he’d known this would happen; he’d known that if he gave in to his desire it would ruin everything. And it had, only not in the way he’d expected.

He’d never imagined that Dean would reciprocate. When he’d kissed him by the lake he’d expected nothing more than bemusement from Dean, at best something gruff but indulgent. Despite that, he’d wanted to do it because he’d known that he’d never get another chance and he didn’t want his life – his brief human life – to end with that lingering regret. 

But if he’d thought that Dean might feel the same, he never would have done it. Not with Daphne waiting for him at home. Or he’d have done it years ago, before he’d ever heard of Daphne Allen. Now it’s too late and all he’s managed to do is hurt Dean, hurt himself, and destroy their friendship.

As always, as Dean so painfully pointed out, Castiel has ‘fucked everything up’ and he has no idea what to do next.

Well. Finding a bus to Aurora is what he has to do next, although he hates having to spend Daphne’s money like this – especially given the circumstances. But he has no choice, so he shrugs on his coat and follows the rest of the passengers off the bus.

It’s cold, a raw wind slicing down from the mountains, and he hunches his shoulders as he makes his way into the bus station. There won’t be a bus until morning, so he’ll have to wait on one of the benches. He’s used to waiting, although it’s harder now that he’s human and hungry and cold and tired. 

Self-pitying too, he thinks with irritation. Another human emotion he could do without.

There’s a vending machine in the corner and he has a few coins in his pocket, so he heads over to buy something to fend off the worst of the hunger pangs. He likes _Milky Way_ bars but—

“Cas.”

Startled, he turns to find Sam Winchester walking toward him with long, confident strides and a smile on his face. He hasn’t seen Sam since he left the bunker, since Sam was possessed by Gadreel, and the warm relief he feels at the sight of him is unfeigned. But it’s tempered by anxiety; if Sam is here, then maybe Dean is too. He’s not sure he’s ready to face Dean again, not after the way they parted. He’s too tired, he can’t think straight. He finds himself backing up.

“Hey,” Sam says, holding up a pacifying hand. “It’s okay.”

Castiel is pressed into the vending machine. “I was—” he says stupidly. “I’m hungry.”

“Then let’s go get you some real food,” Sam says. “C’mon, I’m parked just outside.”

“Dean…” 

“Dean’s not here.” 

The rush of relief, of disappointment, is almost overwhelming. “Oh,” is all he manages to say.

Sam frowns, runs his hand through his hair. “You guys had a falling out?”

When Castiel doesn’t reply, Sam holds up a hand again. “It’s okay,” he says, “I get it. My brother can be a colossal jerk sometimes. I’ve, uh, wound up at the bus station myself a couple times.”

Castiel ventures a smile; he knows all too well the volatility of the brothers’ relationship, but under it all is their abiding love for each other. Things between him and Dean are different, in many ways.

“C’mon,” Sam says again, nodding his head toward the exit. “Let’s go get you some dinner.” And there’s something about the way he says it that makes Castiel certain that Sam won’t accept no for an answer. Plus, Castiel is very hungry, very tired, and doesn’t relish the idea of spending the rest of the night in the bus station alone. Or, worse, not alone. 

“Thank you,” he says at last. “That would be welcome.”

Sam is driving a car Castiel doesn’t recognize and he takes them to a 24hour diner a short distance from the bus station. Sam orders a decaf coffee and Castiel orders a cheeseburger and a side of fries; it might be his last opportunity to eat ‘real’ food for a while. 

Sam watches him eat as if it’s fascinating and when Castiel looks up at him Sam smiles and says, “Sorry, man, it’s just weird seeing you so… human.”

“It’s weird _being_ so human,” Castiel tells him with feeling. 

Sam laughs. “I bet.” But his smile drifts away quickly and he shifts in his seat as if he’s uncomfortable. “Listen, Cas,” he says, “there’s something I need to tell you.”

“About Dean?” Panic spikes. “Is he alright?”

“Yeah, he’s fine. It’s not about Dean.”

“Oh.” He dips his gaze back to his food, embarrassed. 

“It’s about Daphne,” Sam says quietly.

And now he feels a different kind of fear. “What about her?” he says, trying to read the answer in Sam’s face. “Has something happened?” _Does she know what I’ve done?_

 __“Nothing’s happened.” Sam takes a sip of his coffee, obviously delaying what he has to say next. “It’s… Look, Dean asked me to, uh, do a little digging.”

Castiel stops with his burger halfway to his mouth. “Because he thinks Daphne is a supernatural being.” He feels a flare of outrage; he thought they’d settled this. Dean had apologized for his accusations, for doubting Castiel’s judgment. “He knows that she’s not. He _tested_ her.”

Sam makes an equivocal gesture. “That’s the thing, Cas. I think she might be. I’ve done some research.” He digs in his pocket and pulls out some old papers, pushing them across the table toward him. “What do you know about naiads?”

He glances down at the papers, then back to Sam. “You think Daphne is a water nymph? Why?”

“Well, there’s the way she found you for a start – in a river.”

“I walked into the water of my own volition.” He presses his lips together. “Well, not _my_ volition. But it had nothing to do with water nymphs.”

Sam acknowledges it with a shrug. “And then there’s her name.”

“Daphne is a common name, Sam. Not all women called Daphne are water spirits.”

“And then there’s this…” Sam pushes his phone across the table, showing Castiel a photograph. It’s a circle of leaves inside of which are folded clothes – a black jacket and pants, a white shirt, and a familiar blue tie. Castiel feels his stomach pitch. “What…? Where did you find this?” 

Sam clears his throat. “In her basement, Cas. In Daphne’s house.”

“Daphne doesn’t have a basement.”

“Apparently she does,” Sam says. “Cas, I was there just a couple hours ago.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t understand.” Although he does, he just doesn’t want to.

“The leaves are laurel,” Sam explains. “You know, from the story that Daphne—”

“—was transformed into a laurel tree by her father, yes.”

“Laurel is scared to her, obviously. I’m not familiar with this kind of magic, but could it be a kind of binding spell?”

It’s not. Castiel has seen it before, long ago – long ago by human standards, anyway. Besides, he doesn’t feel bound. “It’s a scrying circle,” he says. “Daphne was looking for me.”

“Looking for you?”

“After I— When Dean found me living as Emanuel, I left to help you and never returned. Daphne didn’t know what had happened to me. She told me she spent years trying to find me – although for much of that time I was in Heaven or Purgatory, of course.” He looks up, hold’s Sam’s concerned gaze. “This is not malevolent.”

Sam’s silent for a beat. “Look, you’re probably right. But, Cas, don’t you think we should check it out before you go back there?”

“Check it out how?”

“I don’t know – get the truth out of her? Find out what she wants.”

Irritated, tired and with his emotions raw, Castiel sits back in his chair. “Maybe what she wants is me?”

Sam’s eyebrows rise. “Okay,” he says. “But… what for?”

Castiel turns to glare out the window at the lights of the city, at the few passing cars. “It is possible,” he snaps, “despite what you and your brother seem to think, that she might just _like_ me. Not everyone chooses their friends according to their utility.”

“Okay.” Sam blows out a breath. “First of all, I don’t know what crap Dean has said to you, but, Cas, _we_ like you. And not because of your ‘utility’. This isn’t about that. You gotta read the lore, man. Naiads are jealous; they bind their lovers to them and sometimes they demand sacrifices to seal the deal. And, Cas, the date of your wedding – June 20th? That’s the summer solstice, midsummer’s eve. It’s the traditional date of pagan sacrifice.” He spreads his hands on the table. “Don’t tell me that’s a coincidence, Cas.”

“I lived with her as Emanuel for months,” he points out. “She was never anything but kind to me.”

“Look I’m not saying she wouldn’t be, but you can’t just ignore this, Cas. You can’t ignore the lore. There’s a whole bunch of cases where naiads went all Fatal Attraction.” He thumbs through the papers. “Right – look, this one, Echenais, blinded her lover because he’d cheated on her. This one, Salmacis, ‘fused’ with hers as a kind of vengeance.” He makes a face. “Weird. And then there’s a whole bunch more who just drowned the girls who’d seduced their lovers in the first place.” 

Castiel’s heart thumps. “Drowned?”

“Maybe naiads aren’t monsters in the usual sense,” Sam says, “but, Cas, you gotta be careful. At least you have to know what you’re dealing with.”

Castiel pushes his plate away, his meal half-finished, and scrubs a hand over his eyes. They’re gritty with exhaustion. He just wants to sleep, but he has nowhere to go. The Winchesters have rendered him homeless. Again.

Across the table, Sam sighs. “I’m sorry, Cas,” he says. “I didn’t want this to be true. I hoped you’d found something good here. I mean maybe you have, it’s just…”

Castiel huffs out a bitter laugh. “I don’t think I was meant for good things, Sam.”

“Hey, that’s crap,” he says. Then he tips his head to one side. “Cas, when was the last time you slept? I mean, in a bed.”

He shakes his head because he can’t actually remember. “A long time ago.”

“Yeah, I figured.” Sam pulls out his wallet and slaps a couple of bills on the table. “C’mon, let’s go find a motel. We can talk about it more in the morning.”

Castiel looks up, blinks his gritty eyes. “No, I need to see Daphne,” he says. “Aurora isn’t far from here, you can—”

“In the morning,” Sam says, a hand on Castiel’s shoulder ending the debate. “Trust me, Cas, it’ll all be clearer after a good night’s sleep.”

***

Dean rolls into Aurora at a little after one in the morning and a half hour later he’s pulling up outside Daphne’s house. He cuts the engine and sits in the dark and the quiet. Sam sent through the photo of Cas’s clothes inside the spell circle a few hours back, along with the Cliff Notes version of the lore. Dean wasn’t even slightly surprised. He brings the image up on his phone again now and it makes him sick to his stomach. He doesn’t want to imagine what kind of shit Daphne has in mind for their midsummer’s eve ‘wedding’, but he’s betting it involves slicing more than the cake.

He takes a breath and looks out toward the house. It’s dark, no lights on. It’s a perfectly normal house, like all those other perfectly normal houses full of vamps, or werewolves, or vengeful spirits. Sometimes he thinks the more normal a thing appears, the more fucked up it is under the surface. Himself included, naturally.

He checks the time, then texts Sam: _you got cas?_

 __A moment later he gets his reply: _at the super8 on 1790 Aeroplaza Dr – where r u?_

 __He blows out a breath of relief, but resists asking how Cas is doing. He’s not sure he has the right. Instead he says: _Aurora._ __

__A moment later, Sam replies with: _get some sleep, we’ll be there tomorrow. Cas wants to see Daphne._

 __That little fact cuts up sharp in his stomach, one part concern and all the rest curdled envy. Because of course Cas wants to see Daphne. She’s a fucking monster, but he wants to see her because…. Well, there’s only one reason isn’t there? Because she _saved_ him. Because he loves her. Or thinks he does.

Dean brings up the photo of the spell circle again, Cas’s old clothes in the middle. It has to be some kind of love spell – something that’s compelling Cas to stay with her. It wouldn’t be the first time they’d run across crap like that, after all. 

He looks again at the house, sleeping and dark. He could go in now, destroy the circle, take back Cas’s clothes and break the spell. And if Daph shows up? Well, he just killed one of Lucifer’s primal demons – how hard can it be to gank a freakin’ _nymph_? 

He slips out of the car, closes the door quietly, and pops the trunk. He takes Ruby’s blade, an angel blade, and his Beretta – just in case. Sam said the spell circle was in the cellar and that he’d gotten in through the window. With luck, it’ll still be open. Dean glances both ways down the silent street and runs quickly into the yard and along the side of Daphne’s house. The cellar window is right where Sam described it, and still open. He pulls it wider and slips inside, dropping into a low crouch.

Inside it smells weird: damp and loamy. His boots hit earth instead of concrete and there’s the sound of running water. He digs out his flashlight and sees… It can only be described as an indoor water feature, the kind of thing you might see in a tacky home décor magazine. In the center of the basement sits a freakin’ fountain with a carved figure of a woman on top, water flowing out of the jug she holds and into the small pool that surrounds it. 

_Tacky_ , he thinks. But it’s not what he’s looking for.

He sweeps the beam of his flashlight around until he finds the spell circle on the far side of the room. His stomach clenches at the sight of Cas’s clothes folded neatly in the middle and he approaches cautiously. He can still see blood and black Leviathan goo streaking the white shirt and it throws him back to that day, to the sight of Cas going under – both to the Leviathan and in the water. He feels cold all of a sudden, like his bones are chilled.

Carefully, touching nothing, he circles the spell work. His instinct is to just break the circle of leaves and take the clothes, but he knows that might have unforeseen consequences. He dips a hand into his pocket and pulls out his phone, retrieving his last message from Sam. He’s probably asleep by now, but Dean could just text and see if he knows—

Lights flare on, blinding him, and he flings an arm over his eyes.

A door slams above him and he hears footsteps on the stairs. Blinking against the glare, he squints up to find Daphne Allen watching him. Her arms are crossed over her chest and there’s fury in her sea-green eyes. 

“Dean Winchester,” she says. “I warned you not to bring him home hurt.”

*** 

Castiel sleeps fitfully and is wide awake before dawn. Nonetheless, he feels significantly better than the night before – his mind is clearer, although the sadness sits more heavily on his shoulders now that can understand it better. Everything he’d thought he had a week ago is gone. He’s ‘back to square one’, as Dean might say.

Sam is still sleeping, so Castiel gets up quietly to use the bathroom and pull his jeans back on. Then he sits on the edge of the bed and tries to think about what he’ll say to Daphne.

If what Sam has discovered is true, then she has been less than honest with him. But he hasn’t been entirely honest about his own past, either, or the fact that he’s being actively hunted by some of the most powerful beings on the planet. Or that he’s in love with someone else. He can hardly complain about her secrets.

Of course, there is the issue of the potential midsummer’s eve sacrifice…

On the nightstand next to Sam, a light is flashing. It’s Sam’s phone. He must have a message. It’s likely – probable – that the message is from Dean and, although he knows he shouldn’t, Castiel can’t help reaching over and picking up the phone.

He misses Dean. Despite the way they parted, or maybe because of it, he misses him. He hates it when they’re less than friends.

After a moment of watching the light flash, he swipes the screen on. Dean’s message is straight to the point.

_Help._

__Castiel’s heart lurches. “Sam,” he says, his voice no more than a rasp. Then louder, “Sam!”

He jerks away and upright. “Wha— Cas?”

“It’s Dean,” he says, holding out the phone. 

Sam snatches it from him and fumbles the lamp on. “Crap.”

“Sam, where is he?” Castiel says as he shoves his feet into his boots. 

“Aurora,” Sam says. “I thought he was gonna find a motel.”

Cas freezes in the process of tying his laces. “Did he go to confront Daphne?”

“Probably, the stupid—” Sam scowls as he pulls on his jacket and heads for the door. “Do you think Daphne would hurt him?”

“I don’t know,” he admits as they leave. “Ordinarily, no. I’ve never seen anything to indicate that she would be violent, but—” He opens the passenger door of Sam’s car and debates what to say next.

“But what?” Sam’s already in the car and starting the engine.

“Something you said,” Cas says quietly. He slips into the passenger seat and looks out the window as Sam takes them back onto the road. “About the naiads drowning people who’d seduced their lovers.”

“But what would that have to do with—?” Sam clamps his mouth shut so fast that Cas hears his teeth click together. After a moment Sam clears his throat. “Do you mean, um, that Dean…?”

It’s not a coherent question, but Castiel understands what he’s asking and why he finds it awkward. It _is_ awkward. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat and says, “Yes. Something happened between me and Dean.”

Sam’s long silence is taut and eloquent. When he eventually speaks his voice is strained. “Did he— Are you saying he _seduced_ you?”

“No. It— It didn’t go that far.”

“Oh,” Sam says, hands locked on the steering wheel and eyes fixed straight ahead.

“And if anyone could be accused of seducing,” Castiel adds with a sigh, completing the confession, “it would probably be me. I was the one who—”

“Okay!” Sam says. “That’s probably more information than I need.”

Silence returns. Outside, dawn is a thin gray line on the horizon, the city lights still brighter than the stars. Inside, Castiel feels like he wants to crawl out of his skin, or maybe just climb out of the car. Sam’s disapproval is—

“It’s not that I don’t approve,” Sam says, cutting into Castiel’s thoughts. “I mean, it’s— I guessed how he felt about you, I just didn’t realize you felt the same. So it’s, uh, kind of a shock. You know?” He glances over with a tense smile. “A good shock.”

Castiel blinks at him and wishes he’d had a coffee to clear his head. “It’s not a good shock,” he tells Sam. “Dean is in trouble because of me.”

“Nah,” Sam says with a lopsided shrug. “Dean’s always in trouble. We’ll figure this out.”

Castiel frowns; Sam’s not fully understanding. “Also,” he says, “Dean hates me.”

“What?” The whole car lurches as Sam looks over at him. “What do you mean he hates you?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he says with a sigh. “Let’s just say, we didn’t part as friends.”

“Why not?”

Castiel purses his lips, stares out the passenger window. 

But Sam is persistent. “Cas, c’mon, you can’t just say that and leave me dangling. What the hell happened?”

He’s beginning to understand Dean’s irritation with his brother’s tenacity. 

“Cas…”

Still gazing out the window, Castiel says, “I told him that I couldn’t— That I still intended to marry Daphne. So Dean picked up a woman and brought her back to our motel room.” He makes finger quotes so Sam understands the next part. “To ‘get laid’.”

Sam hisses breath through his teeth. “Wow.”

“Yes.”

“Dean can be a total jerk.”

“Yes.”

“Mind you…” From the corner of his eye, Castiel can see Sam glance over at him. “You were still going to marry Daphne?”

“I have no choice, Sam. I gave her my word.” Castiel sighs, shakes his head. “I only wish I’d— If I’d understood Dean’s feelings sooner I would never have agreed to marry Daphne, of course. But after he told me to leave the bunker, after he left me alone in Rexford and told me to ‘get a normal life’… What was I supposed to think?” 

There’s a long silence. Then Sam says, “Dude, you know you can become unengaged to someone, right?”

“What do you mean?”

“You could break it off. You don’t have to marry someone just because you’ve gotten engaged.”

“But that would be— Breaking a promise like that, Sam, would be wrong.”

“Well, water nymph aside, Cas, wouldn’t marrying someone you don’t love be worse?” Sam flicks him another glance. “C’mon, Cas. It’s not rocket science.”

By which he assumes that Sam means navigating the complexity of human relationships isn’t difficult. Only it is, of course. “I didn’t understand that,” he says irritably. 

“Really?” 

“Obviously.”

Another silence, then Sam says, “You know, sometimes I forget how alien all of this must be to you. I bet Dean does too. I mean, you’re kickass in so many ways, it’s easy to forget that some stuff that seems obvious to us must be as confusing as hell to you.”

Castiel finds himself smiling a little. “You think I’m ‘kickass’?”

Sam laughs. “Dude. Yeah.”

“Well, maybe I was once,” he concedes. 

“You still are, Cas. I’m not talking superpowers, I’m talking you. You’re kickass like Charlie’s kickass. Like Bobby was.” He huffs out another laugh. “Like Dean is, when he’s not being a major league jerk.” He shakes his head and after a pause says, “He really picked up some girl and brought her back to the room after you guys had…whatever?”

“Yes,” Castiel sighs. “I imagine he was sexually frustrated. We both were. I—”

“Okay, Cas?” Sam says, riding a laugh. “Human 101: don’t tell people that stuff. It’s private, okay?”

He slides him a look. “You’re not ‘people’, Sam.”

Sam laughs again. “Dude, there are some things a guy does _not_ need to know about his brother.”

“But you and Dean share everything.”

“Not everything, Cas.” Sam gives him a smile. “You and him, you’ve always had something special, right? Some kind of bond, brothers-in-arms stuff. That’s between you guys, I’m not part of that.”

“I see,” Castiel says, processing the idea that Sam had seen this bond between them, that it was something special – something only between Dean and him – something unique.

“Look, I know what he did was pretty douchey,” Sam says, “but you mean a lot to him, Cas. A _lot_.”

Castiel has no reply to give. He barely dares to hope that he can mend his relationship with Dean – especially now that Dean is missing and in unknown danger. So all he says is, “I hope he’s okay.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, full of feigned confidence. “He’ll be fine. He’s always fine.”

They both know that’s not true.

***

Dean can’t move. From the top of the steps, Daphne holds one arm out toward him and he’s fixed, feet rooted into the dirt. In the center of the cellar, the little tinkling fountain has changed into a torrent and there’s water welling up inside the circular pool, spilling out over its lip and onto the earth floor. And it’s rising fast. It’s up to his knees already.

“Okay, I get it,” he says. “We figured out what you are and now you’re pissed.”

“Is that what you think?” Daphne says, taking a step down and closer to him. “That I care if you know what I am?” Her head tips to the side. “You’re just a mortal, Dean. I’m not afraid of you.”

“Yeah?” He gestures at the rising water. “So what’s this all about?”

Her eyes travel over the water, to the fountain, and back to him. “This is justice, Dean. This is punishment.”

“And who made you the judge?”

She doesn’t answer that, but sits down on the steps, still holding him immobile with one outstretched hand. “I gave you a chance, Dean. I wanted this to work. For Castiel’s sake, I hoped you were the man he believes you to be.” She shakes her head. “But he was wrong and so was I; you’re just like all the rest. Callous, cruel – driven only by base desires.”

“Castiel?” He tries again to move, but it’s as if his legs are set in concrete. Concrete boots with the water rising past his thighs. “So you know who he is, then?”

“I know what he was before you destroyed him.”

“What are you talking about? I didn’t—”

“I can feel his pain,” she says, pressing one hand to her chest. “From the moment he took water into his lungs, I could feel his pain, his sorrow. It drew me to him and, angel or not, I knew I had to save him.” Her mouth tightens. “But then you came along and stole him away, hurt him, broke him, and when I found him again...” There are dark clouds in her eyes now, a stormy anger that’s heavy with unnatural power. “You mortal men, how easily you break the hearts of creatures you don’t understand.”

Dean’s just staring at her now, mouth agape. “I— Look, I don’t know what you think—”

“I _feel_ it,” she hisses, rising to her feet and this time she’s bigger, looming larger – a river in flood, a storm tide surging – and the water rises cold, clamps around his chest. “You bring him nothing but sorrow, Dean Winchester. You’re not worthy of Castiel.”

“I know,” he says, starting to panic. “I know I’m not. But neither are you.”

She stops, bristling. “I want only to save him, to bring him the peace he craves.”

Dean swallows; it’s getting harder to breathe, the water is icy and it’s pressing in on his chest. He works some words into his mouth. “Cas wants to live his own life, to make his own choices and to make his own mistakes. That’s— If you don’t know that, then you don’t know Cas.”

“I eased his pain,” Daphne says. “When I found him in the water he wanted nothing but his own death. I brought him peace. I _saved_ him.”

“You lied to him!” Dean insists. “You hid the truth from him. You knew who he was, but you didn’t tell him.”

Her face shifts, the power waning and a more human discomfort seeping through. “You don’t understand how damaged he was.”

“I do.” Dean swallows because the truth of that hurts worse than the icy water. “But I know Cas, and I know— He’d never want to hide from his mistakes. He’d want to fix them, to make things right.”

“He was content here, healing people. He was fulfilled. And you took that from him. You—”

“He deserved the truth.”

“The truth broke him!” 

“No,” he insists. “Cas isn’t broken. He was never broken.”

She glares at him and he can sense her power rippling through the water, can feel it holding him rigid and helpless. “If you could feel what he felt when he returned here,” she says, “human and useless, rejected by the man for whom he’d given up everything, then you might judge differently, Dean Winchester. I eased his pain then, but soon I will take it away completely; when we are joined you will never be able to hurt him again.”

Dean tries to swallow but can’t, and when he speaks his voice is rasping. “Cas gave up everything for freewill,” he says. “He’d rather die than live without it.” 

“That is foolish and human. Castiel is neither.”

“No, you’re wrong,” he says, the water reaching past his collar as he sucks in quick shallow breaths. “Please. I know he deserves better than me, I get that, but he deserves to choose. Don’t take that from him, not after everything he’s lost.” The water’s over his chin now, he’s taking his last breaths and they’re clogged with grief, with fear and regret. “Please. Tell him—” Water’s in his mouth, he chokes, sucks in another mouthful that’s half water and half air and his body starts to spasm. “Cas—”

_Cas. Sam._

And the water closes over his head.

***

There’s water streaming out of the basement window as Sam sprints across the road. Castiel is only a step behind him and while Sam heads around the side of the house, Castiel takes the porch steps two at a time and heads into the house. 

As soon as he’s in the kitchen he sees a door he’s never noticed before – hidden by spell work, no doubt. It stands open on the far wall and he runs toward it, sliding to a halt at the top of a set of stairs that descend into a water-filled basement. Daphne stands on the bottom step, water lapping around her waist and Dean—

“No!” The word rips out of Castiel’s chest; he’s too late. Dean is slumped under the water, lifeless. “Daphne, what have you done?”

She turns, startled when she sees him. “Steve.”

He stumbles down the stairs and past her, into the water. It’s icy cold and Dean is limp beneath the surface. Terror like he’s never known grips Castiel, he can barely think around it. Dimly he hears Sam shouting as he splashes in through the window, but Castiel is closer and dives under the water to try and pull Dean up. But he won’t move. It’s like he’s locked to the ground. Castiel surfaces, turns on Daphne enraged, summoning every echo of the power he once possessed. “Release him,” he orders and he can almost feel his wings rise at his back. “Do it now.”

Daphne stares at him with a splash of the insolence he’s seen in a thousand displaced deities when faced with the raw power of Heaven. But there’s more than that in her face, there’s something kinder – the woman he knew, who had helped him. “I can take this pain you from, Castiel,” she says. “He’s brought you so much.” 

“I don’t care,” he snarls at her. “I want the pain. All of it.”

Her brow creases. “But why?”

“Release him,” Castiel demands. “Daphne, give Dean back to me.”

She looks at him for a moment longer and then makes a recalcitrant gesture with one hand. The water drains in a matter of seconds and Castiel sinks to his knees next to Dean, presses a shaking hand to his throat. Dean’s skin feels like ice, there’s no pulse. “Please,” he says quietly, doesn’t even know where he’s directing the prayer. “Dean, _please_.”

“Why?” Daphne repeats, walking toward them. “I don’t understand why you want this pain, Castiel.”

There are tears on his cheeks, human tears blurring his vison, and he scrubs a hand across his face. “Because…” He can’t explain it now, can’t parse the complexity of what he’s feeling when he’s drowning in it. “Because I—”

“Because feeling pain is part of feeling love,” Sam says from behind them, his voice uneven and rough. “The more you love someone, the more they can hurt you. But you can’t have one without the other.”

“I can take away love too,” Daphne offers. “Castiel, I can give you serenity – calm waters forever. Peace.”

He shakes his head, presses his hands over Dean’s face, sweeping the wet hair from his forehead. “I don’t want peace,” he says. “I want to feel _everything_.”

She lets out an exasperated sigh, “Humans.” And then, after a pause, says, “He’ll hurt you again, Castiel. You know he will.”

“Yes.”

“And yet you…” She hesitates, as if contemplating unfamiliar thoughts. “You _choose_ this?”

He nods, fingers holding Dean’s cold, still face. “Please,” he says. “Please give him back.”

There’s no answer, but after a slow beat Castiel can feel her power flowing beneath his hands, running through Dean’s body. It’s warm, earthy and ancient. And then Dean sucks in a breath and coughs, choking water out of his lungs. 

“Dean!” Sam falls to his knees, grabs Dean’s shoulders and hauls him onto his side, pounding on his back. 

Castiel goes limp with relief, sinking back and away from the brothers. Over Sam’s head he meets Daphne’s gaze. “Thank you,” he says, scrubbing at his eyes as he climbs unsteadily to his feet. He can see something of her true form now – she’s not hiding it anymore – and she’s beautiful, ethereal and redolent with Earth’s primal power. “Daphne, thank you.”

“I have only wanted your tranquility, Castiel,” she says. “I would not have hurt you.”

Quietly, he says, “Hurting Dean hurts me.”

Her eyes travel to Dean, to Sam supporting him as he shudders back to life. Castiel can feel himself coming back to life too; his breath feels tender in his lungs. 

“Instead of peace you have chosen an uncertain path that will be filled with danger and sorrow,” Daphne says. “I don’t understand your decision.”

“I know,” he says. “It’s difficult to explain. But humans value more than peace. They – _we_ – value the journey, the freedom to make our own mistakes and to live with the consequences. I think it’s that power to choose that gives a mortal life meaning.”

“You are a strange creature, Castiel,” Daphne says, without malice, “the immortal hammer of God made human.” She smiles. “What will you do now? Where will you go in this world you have chosen?” 

He glances at Dean and gives the only answer he can. “I don’t know. I suppose that’s the point.”


	7. Chapter 7

Dean wakes slowly, a peeling back of sleep. He’s aware of flickering light and a low babble of chatter: a television. His eyes blink open and he’s staring at an ugly ceiling. Motel, then. When he turns his head he sees Sam propped up against the headboard of the bed next to his, long legs crossed at the ankle as he shovels Chinese food into his mouth and laughs quietly at the TV.

“Dude,” Dean says. He barely makes a noise. He tries again. “Sammy.”

Sam looks over in surprise. “Oh, hey,” he says, swinging his legs off the bed and setting his food on the bedside table. “You’re awake. How’re you feeling?”

He considers the question. His throat feels like he’s been shouting for a week, his limbs are leaden with exhaustion, but other than that he thinks he’s okay. “Daphne,” he says, getting to the more pressing point, “she—” And then it all comes flooding back. Literally. “She fucking _drowned_ me.”

“Yeah.” Sam nods. “She brought you back too.”

“Brought me back?”

“Cas—” Sam frowns down at his hands, awkward. “Cas made her do it.”

“Is he—?” He pushes himself up on his elbow. It’s a gargantuan effort, leaves him breathless. “Where is he? Is he okay?”

“He’s fine,” Sam assures him. “He’s crashed out next door.”

_Thank God_. Dean sinks back onto the bed in relief, head spinning. “Did he gank her?” he says, staring back at that ugly-ass ceiling. 

“Daphne? No.”

“No?”

“He— They talked.”

“Jesus,” Dean hisses, and despite his exhaustion he feels something knot in his chest. “Don’t tell me he’s still marrying her.”

Sam laughs. “Ah, no. I think the engagement’s off.”

“Thank fuck,” Dean says on a heavy sigh, then throws a glance at Sam in case he’d been too emphatic. Sam’s just staring at him with that serious Sam-stare that always means trouble. Dean shifts awkwardly beneath it. “What?”

Sam shakes his head, looks away. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“It’s just— you’re kind of a jerk, Dean.”

He lets his eyes go wide. “What did I do? I literally just woke up.”

Sam lets out a breath. “Okay,” he says, “here’s what’s gonna happen. In the morning, I’m driving back to the bunker. Alone. You’re driving Cas. And you’re gonna talk to him.”

“Talk to him about what?”

“Ancient philosophy, dude. What do you think?”

A flush creeps up into his cheeks. “I don’t know what—”

“Dean, I know, okay? Cas told me everything.” He frowns, scrubs a hand through his hair. “Including the crap about you bringing some woman back to the room, you asshole.”

He closes his eyes, but it doesn’t stop the guilt from turning his stomach. “Yeah.” 

“Yeah. So get your shit together, Dean. Cas is—” Sam huffs out a sigh. “He’s been human for, like, six months. You gotta be the grown up here, man, because Cas doesn’t know what the hell’s going on with you. Or with him. Or with anything else, really.”

He’s not the only one, Dean thinks.

“And now he’s lost Daphne too,” Sam says, more quietly. “And whatever security he found here is gone.”

Dean takes a couple of breaths, tries to loosen the tension in his chest enough that he can say, “How’s he doing?”

“Honestly?” Sam says. “I don’t know. He’s lost, Dean, and he needs— He needs us, okay? So just man up and deal with it.”

“But is he…” His raw throat croaks and he has to clear it before he carries on. “Is he coming back to the bunker?” 

Sam just looks at him, frank and open as always. “I don’t know,” he repeats. “I guess you’ll have to ask him.”

***

By the time Dean wakes up the next morning, Sam’s gone and there’s sunlight streaming through the thin curtains and onto Dean’s face. His phone tells him it’s just after eight. 

He can move more easily now, his limbs are tired but not leaden and when he sits up his head doesn’t spin. There’s a glass of water next to his bed and he takes a couple of swallows. His throat is still sore, but bearable. 

For a while he just sits on the edge of the bed, letting the events of the past few days rattle around inside his skull. The road trip with Cas, the hunt, the unfurling of tenderness inside him: love, desire, affection. All of that. And then the huge fuck-up. Even by Dean’s own self-destructive standards, screwing up a relationship before it even deserves the title is impressive. Way to go.

And now Cas is next door and homeless again, adrift. He’s afraid Cas might just drift away for good this time.

Dean straightens his shoulders, sits up taller. Two things, he realizes, are clear: first, he loves Cas. Second, whatever Cas feels for him – and given the crap he pulled with Stacey/Tracey, his hopes aren’t high – Dean is not letting him leave. Cas is coming to the bunker and he’s going to stay there as long as he needs. If that means Dean has to move out, hit the road just to make sure Cas stays, then so be it. He’s going to look after Cas whether he likes it or not. Just like he does with Sam. It’s what he does, after all. It’s who he is. He takes care of the people he loves.

That decided, it’s easier to get up, shower, and face the day. He pauses before he opens the door, takes a breath to brace himself, and then steps out into the cold morning light.

Baby is parked right outside, windshield iced over and a dusting of snow on her roof. The sun is glaring off snowy buildings and he has to squint as he makes his way over to the car. The asphalt is icy beneath his feet. He dumps his bag in the trunk and retrieves gloves, a hat and his sunglasses, and sets about deicing the car. Baby will need a little coaxing this morning, after a night freezing her ass off out here, and he thinks fondly of the warm garage back at the bunker. “We’ll get you home,” he tells her as he starts work on the windshield. And not only her.

About fifteen minutes later he hears another door open, the one next to his room, and Cas steps out. He stops dead when he sees Dean, and Dean’s heart does an adolescent somersault as he slowly straightens up from the windshield. He swallows and says, “Hey.”

“Dean,” Cas says. “Hello.”

And then they just stare at each other. Despite everything that happened with Daphne, this is really the first time they’ve seen each other since that night in Texas and all Dean can think is that the last time Cas saw him Dean practically had his tongue down Stacey’s throat. He hopes Cas isn’t thinking the same thing, but he suspects that he is.

“You look better,” Cas says, breaking the silence and fishing his sunglasses out from where they’re tucked into the top of his jacket. 

“Yeah,” Dean says, going back to scraping ice. It’s easier than looking at Cas in those glasses, curls of dark hair poking out from under the beanie he’d bought him that first day in Aurora. “Thanks to you, I hear.”

Cas’s feet crunch over the ice. “It was my fault you got hurt,” he says, with a heaviness in his voice that Dean doesn’t like. 

“Dude, don’t,” he says, glancing up. He can’t see anything but the Impala reflected in Cas’s sunglasses. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“If I’d listened to your suspicions about Daphne…”

“And if I hadn’t broken the golden rule and gone in alone…?” He swipes a handful of ice down and off the windshield. “Mistakes were made,” he concedes. “But no harm done, right?”

“Dean, she drowned you.”

He flashes a grin, opens his arms. “And yet here I am.”

It has the desired result; a half smile nudges its way onto Cas’s face and it’s so gorgeous that Dean feels his chest swell just looking. Christ, he’s so fucking gone on Castiel. Buoyed, he says, “We, ah, we should get breakfast before we hit the road.”

The smile falls away. “Dean about that—”

“We gotta eat, Cas.”

“No, I mean the other thing. Hitting the road. I don’t know where…”

He trails off and Dean’s tempted to tell him to shut up, that he’s coming back to the bunker and that’s that. But Sam’s admonition is fresh in his mind – _be the grown up_ – and he knows Sam’s right. This has to be Cas’s choice and Dean’s got to level with him before he makes his decision. It scares the crap outa him, but he can do it. He can do it for Cas. “Look,” he says. “Let’s go eat. I’m freezing my balls off out here. We can talk over breakfast, okay?”

Cas tips his head, that curious gesture that’s so _him_. “You want to talk?”

“Yeah,” Dean says with a smile. “I _can_ do it, you know. Whatever my jerk brother thinks.”

And it’s back, that hint of a smile Dean realizes he’s chasing. “All right,” Cas says. “Let’s talk.”

There’s a Biggerson’s right next to the motel, so they head in there and find a booth by the window. It’s warm after the cold air outside and they both peel off a couple of layers. When Cas pulls off his hat Dean realizes he must have put it on while his hair was still damp, because it’s sticking up all over the place now and he has to swallow a smile.

Cas’s eyes narrow. “What?”

“Nothing, man,” Dean says, and practically sits on his hands to keep from touching. 

Absently, Cas threads his fingers through his hair and looks around. “Did you know,” he says, “that I’ve been to every Biggerson’s restaurant in the country?”

Dean stares at him for a moment. “Dude, why? They’re all the same.”

Cas inclines his head. “That’s why,” he says.

“Okay.” Dean doesn’t press further; Cas wouldn’t be Cas without his little idiosyncrasies and Dean loves the crap out of them. 

When the waitress arrives, Dean orders the Ultimate American Breakfast. Cas, hesitating, pulls out his wallet and starts riffling through the notes before he orders. “I’ll um,” he says, glancing back at the menu. “I’ll have a side of—”

“He’ll have the same as me,” Dean says with a sharp smile that’s not aimed at the waitress. “With extra bacon. And coffee.”

“Dean,” Cas says, once the waitress has left, “I need to conserve my—”

“Will you just stop?” Dean snaps. “I’ll cover your freakin’ breakfast, okay?”

“Well, that’s kind of you, but—”

“It’s not _kind_ , Cas. It’s—” He takes a breath, fakes a smile for the waitress who’s back too damn fast with their coffees. “Okay,” he says when they’re alone again. “C’mon, let’s talk.” 

Cas looks at him for a moment, then tucks his wallet back into his coat. “All right,” he says, sitting back in his seat. He fixes Dean with a steady look. “Once more I’m homeless and without any means of supporting myself. I was thinking of returning to Rexford, to see if I might be able to get my old job back. Nora was sorry when I left, and I think she might take me on again if she’s able.” He makes a face. “Of course, I may only get limited hours. It doesn’t solve my housing situation, but Nora— Well, I think she understood my situation before.”

He stops speaking and silence falls between them. Into it, in what he hopes is a measured tone, Dean says, “Is that it? You done?”

Cas’s jaw tenses, then he adds, “If you could give me a ride to Rexford, I’d be grateful.”

“Right,” Dean says, drumming his fingers on the table in an attempt to school himself to patience. He holds on to Sam’s words – reminds himself that Cas is six-months human, that he’s lost, confused, and that Dean’s probably the cause of most of that. He takes a breath and says, “First – no, I can’t give you a ride to Rexford. Second – why would you want to go and work in a freakin’ Gas-n-Sip when you could come back to the bunker and—”

“And what, Dean?” All traces of his smile are gone, his expression as sharp as it’s ever been. “What would I do there? Hunt? You don’t need my help hunting.”

“You could do anything you want, Cas.”

“I _want_ to be useful. What I _don’t_ want—” He stops himself because the waitress is back with their food, setting down their breakfasts with a smile. When she’s gone, Cas leans forward and gestures to his plate. “What I don’t want is your charity, Dean. You’re not responsible for me.”

“It’s not charity to buy a friend breakfast,” Dean says, grinding the words between his teeth.

Cas picks up his knife and fork, brow creased. “I meant— You know what I meant. I need to have a purpose, Dean.”

“Okay, I get that. I do. But your purpose isn’t working in a freakin’ Gas-n-Sip, Cas. C’mon. That’s just a waste and you know it.”

“Then what do you suggest?”

“Man of Letters,” Dean says, because, yeah, he’s given this some thought. “Not that you’re not handy in a fight, Cas, but maybe hunting ain’t for you. That’s okay. We got rooms of books and artefacts at the bunker that we’ve not even looked at and probably wouldn’t understand if we did. But you?” He scoops up a forkful of eggs. “Dude, you’d know exactly what you were looking at – you could put it all into context for us. Now _that_ would be useful.” He smiles, because the thought of it – of Cas rummaging around in the dusty rooms of the bunker – sends something swooping low in his belly. “Yeah,” he says, almost to himself, “that would be perfect.”

Cas is silent and after a couple more mouthfuls of breakfast, Dean glances up. Cas is watching him intently, something bright in his eyes. When Dean catches him watching Cas looks away, out the window, and says, “How would I…? I don’t have money.”

“Cas, I know you don’t like how me and Sammy work it, but unless someone’s gonna start paying us to do this crap then that’s just the way it’s gotta be.” He smiles down into his breakfast. “Perhaps we’ll teach you to hustle pool.”

“That doesn’t sound like something I want to learn.”

“I bet you’d be good, though,” Dean says, letting his smile widen into a grin. “With that face.”

Cas looks away, but Dean doesn’t miss the slight flush in his cheeks. Dean’s made him uncomfortable and he’s not sure if that’s good or bad; he doesn’t dare raise the other issue sitting between them. For now, all he wants is to be able to take Cas home. “So,” he says, keeping it casual. “What do you say?”

“I…” He rubs a hand over his unshaven chin. “I don’t know, Dean. There’s a lot to consider.”

And Dean can feel him slipping away, slipping through his fingers. _Just like in Purgatory_ , his mind supplies. He tries not to panic, not to hold on too tight. Cas can be a stubborn SOB and Dean needs to be subtle. “How about we try it for a couple weeks?” he suggests, taking a sip of his cooling coffee to hide his tension. “We’ll work a couple cases, see how it goes.”

Cas is frowning, his gaze turned inward. 

Dean can see the inner conversation flicker across his face and thinks he understands. Clearing his throat, he says, “Look, Cas, cards on the table – I want you with us in the bunker. It’s where you belong. We’ll deal with all the other crap when we have to, but first you gotta come back.” He takes a breath. “You gotta come home.”

“Home?” he echoes, glancing up and barely meeting Dean’s eyes. “Dean—”

“I mean it, man.” His voice goes scratchy with all the emotion he’s keeping down, all the things he’s not saying. “Everything else aside, the bunker’s your home, Cas, as much as it’s mine and Sammy’s.”

“I—” He closes his eyes and then nods. “All right,” he says. “All right, we’ll try it. We’ll try it for a couple of weeks.”

The punch of relief makes Dean laugh. “Okay,” he says, grinning. “That’s—” He reaches across the table and clasps Cas on the arm in lieu of a hug. “It’s gonna be awesome, dude. You’ll see.”

Cas nods, although he looks shaky as he glances down at Dean’s hand on his sleeve. “Thank you—”

“Don’t thank me,” Dean warns, pulling his hand away. “Do _not_ thank me. This isn’t a favor, okay? You’re family. End of story.”

Cas turns to look out the window, but not before Dean sees the way his eyes are glistening. It makes his throat tighten, makes Dean want to lean right over the table and hug him.

After a moment Cas clears his throat and in an emotional voice says, “That means a lot to me, Dean.”

He has to swallow a couple times before he says, “Yeah, me too.”

They finish the rest of their meal in silence, but it’s thoughtful rather than tense. Dean thinks that’s something of a miracle, given how they’d parted last, and gives himself a mental pat on the back. 

He chooses to ignore the fact that he’s done nothing to address the huge sexually-charged elephant sitting slap bang in the middle of the room. One thing at a time, after all.

When Cas excuses himself and heads to the restroom, Dean texts Sam to tell him he’s bringing Cas home. There’s a brief pause before Sam’s response: _that’s great._

Then, a moment later: _funny coincidence – charlie thinks she’s found a case so i’m heading over her way to check it out. No biggie, see you guys in a couple days._

Dean’s bullshit detector blares at full volume. Yeah, hilarious coincidence. Ha-ha. 

But he’s not sure whether he’s embarrassed or grateful that Sam is giving them space until Cas comes back to the table, brow pinched into a frown. “Dean,” he hisses, concerned as he slides into the seat opposite him. “You didn’t tell me my hair looked so disheveled.” And in the moment of utter fondness that follows, Dean realizes that he’s actually freakin’ terrified. This thing he feels for Cas is real and deep and intense, and now Sam’s pointedly giving him the time to actually deal with it. For real. He and Cas, alone in the bunker with nothing between them but their own messed up history. Fuck.

He offers a weak smile. “Dude, I didn’t notice.”

Cas just narrows his eyes. “You’re a terrible liar, Dean Winchester.”

***

Dean offers the keys to Castiel in the Biggerson’s parking lot, much to his surprise – and secret delight. When he asks why, Dean just says, “Maybe I like watching you drive?”

Castiel isn’t sure what to make of that, but Dean’s smile curls warm in the pit of his stomach and makes him smile too. So he takes the first couple of hours out of Colorado and into the flat expanse of Kansas, a straight shot along US-36. 

Dean takes over when they stop for gas in Atwood and Castiel doesn’t mind at all; he likes watching Dean drive too.

They don’t talk much. Castiel is still processing the fact that Dean wants him to stay in the bunker on a permanent basis – as a Man of Letters, no less. He can’t deny that it sounds perfect, _almost_ perfect. But they’ve still to discuss the other issue which is threading hot lines of tension between them and Castiel knows that if that can’t be resolved then he won’t be able to stay with Dean in the bunker. To be so close, but not close enough, would be more than he could bear. He’s only human, after all.

Unfortunately, he has no idea what Dean is feeling. To date Castiel’s romantic encounters are limited to a Reaper who seduced and then killed him, Nora who only wanted a babysitter, and Dean… Dean, who he loves in every conceivable way, but rejected because he was already committed to marrying a woman who turned out to be a somewhat vengeful pagan water goddess.

So, no, when it comes to romantic instinct Cas has nothing on which to draw. 

Dean smiled at him this morning and bought him breakfast and he’s invited Castiel into his home. But Sam has done all of those things too. Castiel has no idea what Dean’s feelings are toward him following their ill-fated tryst, and no way to find out beyond a point-blank question, and he’s not angel enough for that anymore. He’s afraid the wrong answer might be more than his human heart can stand.

So he holds his silence for now, fixes his eyes on the vast smallness of Kansas and the long miles slipping past. It had taken days to hitchhike out of here when Dean had turned him away from the bunker, and he tries not to remember it now. But this emptiness is too familiar and it kicks up painful feelings. At the time, standing next to the road stretching out endlessly ahead and behind him, he’d felt that the featureless landscape had mirrored his barren soul. And, truthfully, it still does. His existence is fragile, depends so much on the Winchesters, and that frightens him; without them, he’s as empty as the Kansas plains.

“So,” Dean says into the quiet, shifting on the seat in a way Castiel understands to be uncomfortable. “Almost there. You recognizing any of this?”

“These fields? Not specifically.”

“Lebanon grain elevator,” Dean says, waving toward a structure in the distance. “Soon as I see that, I know I’m nearly home.”

It’s an ugly piece of machinery, Castiel thinks, but he likes the idea of ‘nearly home’. He wants that almost as much as he wants Dean. Both seem equally precarious.

“Sam says he’s stocked up on groceries,” Dean carries on, “so we can just, you know, crash out when we get back. I’ll cook dinner.” He casts Castiel a sideways look. “For both of us, I mean.”

“Thank—”

“Don’t,” Dean warns again, and although his tone is light-hearted his fingers are tight on the steering wheel. “You gotta stop thanking me, man.” He rolls his shoulders, frowns a little, then adds, “Cooking’s easy. I’ll show you how and then you can make _us_ dinner sometimes. If you like.”

Castiel smiles a little. “I can cook, Dean. Daphne showed me the basics and it’s not difficult to follow a recipe if you can read. Which I can, of course, in every language ever spoken.”

Dean looks over at him, one of those inscrutable expressions on his face. “Daphne taught you to cook, huh? I’m guessing mostly fish.”

“Daphne is vegetarian,” Castiel says, lifting an eyebrow to tell Dean to cut the jokes. “And she was very kind to me.”

“Right,” he says, turning his attention back to the road. “Yeah, I know. She saved you.”

Castiel doesn’t respond to that, because she did save him – but not in so profound a way as Dean saved him all those years ago. Doomed him too, in a way.

“It’s just,” Dean says, picking up the conversation after a silence, “I kinda wish it had been me. I should’ve shown you stuff like that. How to be human.”

He wonders if Dean realizes he’s been showing Castiel how to be human since the moment he first laid a hand on him in Hell. “I—” he begins, but decides that subject will take them too close to the one they’re avoiding, and he’s not ready for that, doesn’t think this is the place to talk about what had almost happened between them. So instead he says, “I didn’t learn how to make pancakes or bacon. Or cheeseburgers. Or pie.”

Next to him, Dean smiles. “Dude, I can so show you how to make all those things.”

“Good,” Cas says with a smile of his own. “I’d like that, Dean.” Deliberately, he doesn’t say ‘thank you’.

It’s not long after this that Dean turns off the interstate and onto the bumpy road that leads up to the bunker. Castiel tries not to remember walking down it alone and in the dark, tries to replace that image with this new one – of him coming back with Dean. It’s not easy, and when they pull up in front of the bunker’s industrial door his emotions are scattered and difficult to marshal. 

Dean cuts the engine and they sit in silence. Eventually Dean says. “So. Here we are.”

“I remember this,” Castiel says. “I remember leaving.” He closes his eyes, not sure why he let that out, why he can’t control himself.

There’s another pause before Dean says, “After you left I got so drunk I passed out. I fucking _hated_ myself.”

“You were doing what you thought best for Sam,” Castiel reminds him – reminds them both. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Dean takes a breath. “Yeah,” he says, like he’s closing down the conversation rather than agreeing. Then he looks over and says, “I always imagined this, though. You coming back.”

Castiel has never allowed himself to imagine this, not for a moment; he can barely let himself imagine it now.

“C’mon,” Dean says, “grab your stuff and let’s go inside.”

The bunker is larger than Castiel remembers; his human memory is frustratingly unreliable. But the _feel_ of it is the same. It feels safe. He trails a hand over the walls as he steps through the doorway and wonders whether he’s feeling the warding built into the structure. Not so long ago, he’d have known for sure; he would have been able to read each one.

Dean trots down the steps ahead of him into a room dominated by a large table covered in a map. He remembers that too. There are books lining the walls and pieces of technology he doesn’t recognize. It’s exciting, this place, it feels sacred. Not holy, but sanctified. Rarefied. Against his will he thinks, _I could be at home here._

But he remembers thinking that before, the last time, right before Dean told him to leave. He swallows the memory and follows Dean downstairs.

“We call this the war room,” Dean says. “Through there is the library, that’s the kitchen. Bedrooms and bathroom are that way.” He gestures along a corridor to their right. “The dungeon is—”

“Dungeon?”

Dean grins. “This is an all-purpose bunker, dude. There’s also a firing range and a garage with some sweet, sweet rides.”

“It sounds very comprehensive,” Castiel says, looking around him as he shifts his duffle bag from one hand to the other.

Dean shuffles his feet, his usual assurance absent. “You, um— So let’s go put that in your room.” He heads off along a corridor and Castiel follows. He remembers this too, because he showered here and Dean had given him the use of one of the unused bedrooms in which to change. They pass the open door of one room and Dean says, “That’s Sam’s,” and then a little further on, “This one’s mine.” He stops and goes to the room opposite his own. “And this is yours,” he says and opens the door, switches on the light.

“Thank—” Castiel breaks off when he steps inside because this is no dusty unused bedroom. It’s spotless. There’s a bed that’s made up with new sheets and a comforter, a side table with a modern clock and a lamp sitting on it. Above the bed is a framed photograph of Earth as he remembers seeing her, blue and beautiful against the black void of space. There are two shelves full of books on one wall, above a desk with a cell phone charger sitting alongside a pot of pens and a leather-bound notebook. Against the opposite wall there’s a chest of drawers and a device he thinks is for playing music, although the technology appears dated. 

“That’s a record player,” Dean says when he sees where Castiel is looking. “And these…” His hand lands on the box next to it. “These are vinyl. If you’re gonna start your musical education somewhere, Cas, it has to be with vinyl.”

He doesn’t understand what that means, but it’s not really the point. “Dean,” he says, “what is this?”

“It’s your room,” Dean says, and rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “I mean, you can change it if you—”

“You put all this in here?” he clarifies. “For me?”

“Yeah, of course. Well, Sam added some of the nerdy books from the library.” He flashes a smile. “I got you Grisham.”

“But… When did you do all this?”

Dean shrugs and drops eye contact. “Started right after I’d sobered up, I guess.” He moves a little further into the room and switches on the bedside lamp. It casts a comforting glow over the walls. “Like I said, I always imagined you coming back, Cas. I always wanted this.” 

Castiel is lost for words in a very literal sense.

Dean pats the bed. “Memory foam,” he says with a pleased expression. Then he turns to a heavy wooden closet and opens it. “There’re a few hangers, if you need them. A spare blanket, although the temperature here’s pretty constant, but you know – if you got sick or something? Oh, and towels. Nice ones – 800GSM.” 

Castiel’s legs are wobbly and he moves to the bed, sits on its edge. _His_ bed, he thinks. His own bed. His own room. “Dean,” he manages at last, “there are no words to…” There aren’t; he’s run out.

“Just don’t say thank you,” Dean warns, but the admonition is affectionate and his eyes are bright with pleasure. “It was literally the least I could do, man. Considering.”

What he wants to do is cross the room, put his arms around Dean and tell him _everything_ that’s beating in his heart. He wants to wash away all the days before this one: every betrayal, every hurt, and every conflict that lingers between them. He wants to take Dean in his hands and brand his love into his bones the way he’d once etched Enochian spells into his ribs. He wants all of that, more than that, but he doesn’t move. He doesn’t dare. All he can do is look at Dean and hope he sees some part of what he wants in his eyes, hope Dean still wants it too. 

But Dean just swallows, shuffles his feet as he licks his lips. “I’ll, uh, let you settle in,” he says. “You hungry? I’m hungry. I’ll go—”

“Dean.” Castiel pushes back to his feet because he can’t say nothing. “You have to let me thank you. Not for this – not for these things – but for keeping me in your thoughts all this time. I had no idea.”

“Cas,” Dean says in a scratchy voice. “Just— always, okay?” He presses a hand to the back of his neck and turns away. “I, uh… I gotta— I’ll make dinner.”

***

Dean makes pasta. It’s simple and doesn’t need a lot of concentration, which is good because his brain is fried. He’s half cursing and half thanking Sam for making himself scarce. On the one hand, having Sam here would go a long way to cutting the tension building between himself and Cas. On the other, he’s glad Sam can’t see the way he isn’t so much wearing his heart on his sleeve as he is gift wrapping it with a girly bow and handing it over.

Not that Cas seems to notice. Or maybe he just doesn’t want it, and Dean can hardly blame him. He can still feel Stacey/Tracey’s sticky lipstick on his mouth and he can still see Cas’s wounded confusion. It’s the later that turns his stomach. He wasn’t lying when he told Daphne that he didn’t deserve Cas and he’s not sure he’s ever deserved him less than right now – or wanted him more, ironically.

In his back pocket, his phone buzzes. He reads the message while he fries up onion, garlic, chicken and mushrooms. Obviously it’s from Sam – an innocuous, _how’s it going?_

He replies with an equally innocuous, _Cas likes his room_.

There’s a longer pause before his phone buzzes again. 

_lol – like he’ll be sleeping in there!!!!!_ It includes an emoticon of an eggplant that Dean doesn’t want to understand.

It’s immediately followed by: _sorry, that was charlie._

Fan-freakin’-tastic. He’s about to text something acidic to the pair of them, when another message pops up: _seriously, dean, it’s good. let yourself have what you want for once in your life - you both deserve this._

__He’s considering that message – considering the important point that it’s not just about what _he_ wants – when Cas finds his way into the kitchen. 

“Hey,” Cas says and Dean fumbles his phone into his pocket, nervous as a teenager. 

“Hey?” Dean echoes, turning back to the stove. “What happened to ‘Hello Dean’?”

Behind him he hears a huff of laughter. “I’m broadening my vocabulary.”

“Says the dude who speaks every language in the world.”

Cas doesn’t reply, but Dean can sense him wandering further into the kitchen, hear his tentative footsteps behind him. “I thought Sam would be here,” he says after a moment.

Glancing back around, Dean sees Cas hovering close to the refrigerator like he’s not sure where to settle. His nervousness makes Dean uneasy. “Sam’s gone to help Charlie with some kind of case,” he says. “Apparently.”

“You don’t believe him?” 

“I believe he’s gone to see Charlie.”

Cas frowns, one hand tapping uncertainly on the back of a dining chair. “Is he—? Does my presence here make him uncomfortable?”

“No. Why would it?”

He gives a shrug. “This is his home too…”

“He wants you here as much as I do, man.” He turns back to the stove, stirs the pan. “I mean— you know. Different.” His ears burn as he edges closer to the thing they haven’t discussed. “But he wants you here.”

Quietly, Cas says, “Dean…”

And he’s not ready for it, not now. “Dude, there’s a carton of cream in the refrigerator. Could you get it for me?”

He feels rather than hears Cas retreat, change gear. “Right,” he says after a beat. “Okay.”

_Crap_ , Dean thinks. _Crap, crap, crap_. 

But they only just got here and if they talk about it now and Dean screws it up – like he always does – then Cas might leave. And they haven’t even eaten dinner yet. 

Cas hands over the cream, standing a more- than-respectable distance away as he watches Dean stir it into the pan. “That smells good,” he offers.

“Yeah. It’s the garlic.”

“I like garlic,” Cas says. “And chili. Cilantro is also good.”

Dean smiles, he can’t help himself. “That’s great,” he says. “It’s good you’re getting to know the things you like.”

“Taste is definitely one of the upsides to being human. To an angel, everything tastes like molecules.”

And that makes Dean smile again, makes him want to nudge his shoulder against Cas, call him something affectionate, breathe it into the hair at his temple. “I, uh,” he says instead, “you wanna find some silverware in that drawer? Sam left a few beers in the fridge. I’ll dish up.”

He tries to ignore how painfully domestic it is, how much like the life he’s never allowed himself to imagine. But it’s not easy, especially when Cas sets the table so that he and Dean are next to each other around a corner of the table rather than opposite. _Personal space_ , he thinks with a nervous smile, but doesn’t change anything. When he sits, his knee is so close to Cas he swears he can feel the heat of him through his jeans.

“This is very good,” Cas says and eats like he’s starving. It occurs to Dean that Cas hasn’t yet learned the art of snacking, of sating his hunger immediately. After all, his first experience of being human was living alone on the streets – perhaps he thinks hungry is normal? It’s not a comfortable thought.

“You want more?” Dean nods to the pan. “Help yourself.”

“No, that was plenty. Thank you.” Cas sets his plate to one side, pulls his beer closer and runs a finger around the edge of the label. 

Tension ratchets up with each moment of silence and Dean can hear his blood start pounding in his ears. He chases the last of his pasta around his plate, afraid to finish – afraid of what’s coming next. He glances up from beneath his brow to watch Cas, who’s still staring thoughtfully at his beer. 

Dean thinks he should go first, just jump in and start. Talk about it – what he did, what they almost did. _You both deserve this_ , Sam had said. But Dean’s pretty sure it’s not true; Dean doesn’t deserve Cas and Cas certainly deserves something much better than Dean. He knows exactly how badly he could screw this up, screw Cas up – break him like he breaks everything he loves. 

But the problem is, the cat’s already out of the bag and stuffing it back inside is impossible; his feelings for Cas have escaped him, even Sam knows about them – even Charlie – and they can’t go back to being friends now. Or whatever the hell they were before this mess started. Which means they have to become something else – and he’s terrified that that something is going to be strangers.

It’s that, more than anything, which prompts him to speak. “I, uh,” he says, switching his gaze between Cas and his empty plate, “I owe you an apology, dude.”

Cas stops moving, one finger poised over the label of his bottle. “Okay.”

Dean’s relieved he’s not going to play dumb, but then Cas never really was one for games. “The other night,” Dean says, voice scratchy in his throat, “picking up that woman?” He presses his mouth together, disgusted with himself. “That was a dick move on my part, man. I’m sorry.” 

Cas sighs, his shoulders rising and falling. “It was certainly very uncomfortable.”

“I was—” Hurt, disappointed, confused, upset: he doesn’t want to offer excuses, to somehow blame it on Cas. “I’m a jerk, you know that.”

Cas doesn’t respond, doesn’t deny it and doesn’t confirm it. And Dean can’t sit there any longer in the silence, so he gets up and takes both their plates to the sink, sets the water running. Behind him he hears the scrape of a chair against the tile floor. 

“I’m sorry too,” Cas says.

Dean watches the water run over their plates and says, “You got nothing to apologize for, man.”

“Regret, then,” Cas says, and Dean can hear frustration in his voice. “I feel regret, Dean. What I did that night was foolish.” 

And that coils cool around his heart, slowing his pulse, his breathing, sucking it down into the cold. But it’s for the best, he tells himself. The best for Cas. “We all make mistakes,” he says in a voice that sounds crackly and wrong. “The important—” He has to clear his throat to carry on. “The important thing is that we can move past it. Still be friends.” 

Cas is silent and Dean doesn’t dare turn around. His eyes are hot and prickly and he squirts detergent into the sink so he doesn’t have to move away. Mechanically, he starts washing the plates. At last – it feels like forever – Cas says, “I’ll always be your friend, Dean.” And then, in a faint voice, “I’m tired. I think I’ll go to bed.”

It’s seven o’clock. Dean takes it as the excuse it clearly is and lets him go without trying to convince him to stay. 

He feels like the worst fucking coward in the history of cowardice.


	8. Chapter 8

Two hours later, Dean is sprawled on the sofa watching TV. The idea of setting Cas up in the room directly opposite his own had seemed good when Cas had been gone, when his absence had caught like a barb in Dean’s chest. Then, he’d wanted to keep him as close as he’d let himself believe possible. But now…

Now it’s too close. And not close enough.

He can’t lay in bed knowing that Cas is a couple steps away – close enough to touch, but utterly untouchable – pissed at him, or regretful, or whatever it is he’s feeling about this whole mess. So Dean stays out in the living room with the TV and a beer. He’s not drunk, even though he’d like to be, but he’s not taking any chances tonight. His emotions are on a hair trigger; it wouldn’t take much to have him barreling into Cas’s room and throwing all self-respect to the wind. 

_I’m sorry. I’ll change. I need you._

He takes a sip of beer, conserving it, and fixes his eyes on the TV. He’s not even sure what he’s watching, it’s just light before his eyes. All he can see tonight is Cas. 

Then, from behind him, he hears a scuffing sound and turns with his heart in his mouth and a stupid, hopeful smile on his lips. Cas. 

But the smile slips away instantly. It _is_ Cas, but it’s Cas wearing his coat and carrying his duffel bag like the Littlest-fucking-Hobo. His face is pale, eyes too bright. Has he been _crying_?

Moving slowly, heart pounding, Dean climbs to his feet. “The hell?” he says and sways as if he’s had way more than two beers. It’s like all the blood is draining from his head. 

“I think,” Cas says, his eyes fluttering closed and then open again. “I think it would be best if I left.”

“No.” Panic whips straight into anger. “No fucking way.”

“Dean, please. I can’t—”

“You’re not leaving. End of the fucking story, Cas. We can work this out. However you want, we can work this out. But you are _not_ walking out that door tonight. No way.”

Again his eyes close, a shadow of that familiar exasperation on his face. “I don’t think you understand.”

“I understand that you’re not leaving.”

“Dean—”

“Look, I get it, okay? You’re embarrassed; it’s awkward. I fucked up. I always fuck up. But Cas, it was just—” He swallows because it wasn’t _just_ anything. “It was one stupid kiss. We can get past it.”

“It’s not—” Cas takes a breath and something of his angelic intent returns. “It’s not kissing you that I regret,” he says stiffly. “What I regret is stopping.”

And that punches the breath right out of Dean. 

“So you see,” Cas presses on grimly, “being here with you, like this, when I want—” His jaw clenches. “You understand.” And then he’s heading for the stairs.

Dean can’t speak but he _can_ move and he’s around the sofa a split second after Cas, grabbing his arm to stop him.

Cas tries to pull away. “Dean—”

But he doesn’t let go, works the words into his mouth past the heartbeat fluttering in his throat. “I’ll hurt you,” he says. “I’ll be a dick. I’ll screw things up.”

Cas stares at him, head tilting in that gesture that reminds Dean he’s not quite human – probably never will be. 

“I hurt people, Cas. You get that, right?”

“I hurt people too,” he says, like it’s obvious. Like it’s no big deal. “I don’t understand your point.”

Dean tightens his fingers around Cas’s arm, digs into the taut muscle under his coat. “You deserve better than me, Cas; you deserve the whole fucking world.”

“But I don’t want the world,” he says, confused. “I only want you.”

Dean feels himself shaking somewhere deep inside. “You should go,” he says, holding on tighter. “I should just make you go.”

“Dean,” Cas says with a touch of imperious amusement. “You can’t _make_ me do anything.”

It’s enough to get Dean laughing, unsteady with emotion. He drops his hand from Cas’s coat, rubs it over the back of his neck. “I guess you always were a stubborn sonofabitch.” 

Cas hums low in his throat. “So I’ve been told.” His bag hits the floor with a soft whump as he turns around. “Dean, I’ve told you before, you’re not responsible for me. I’m not your brother and you don’t—” He licks his lips and Dean realizes he’s nervous, uncertain. “Dean, I thought you wanted to forget what happened that night?”

“I— No.” He swallows. “Only the part with that— with Stacey.” Dean can’t meet his eyes, finds himself talking to somewhere just below the collar of his coat. “But I thought you wouldn’t want… I mean, now you know what… what I am.”

There’s a long silence. He can hear Cas breathing, see his chest rising and falling, see his fingers fretting at his coat sleeves. “Dean,” he says at last, “I first saw you in Hell, steeped in blood. I held your tortured soul in my hands. I _raised_ you. And I thought— Dean, look at me.”

But he can’t, it’s too much – all of this is too much. He feels more than he can contain, his throat is closing, his eyes are pricking. He’s a couple of seconds away from losing it entirely.

Cas doesn’t seem to notice. “I said _look at me_.” He takes Dean’s chin in his fingers, not gently, and forces his head up. “I thought you understood,” he says, his eyes intent. “I _know_ you, Dean. I know all that you are, all that you’ve ever been. How could you think that _anything_ would change what I feel for you?”

Dean blinks, finds his voice even if it is dry and scratchy. “Because you left,” he says. “You fucking _left_ , Cas. What was I supposed to think?”

And that seems to startle him. “I… How could I have stayed?”

“It’s—” Dean shakes his head; he’s got no answer. “People get pissed and then they leave. It's just what happens. Why would you be any different?”

“People?” he echoes, like he’s puzzling it out. “You mean… your father?”

“I guess. And Cassie. Lisa. Sam.” He swallows, glances up. “You – after the Leviathan, in Purgatory. Every time you flapped your freakin’ wings, even when I needed—” He chokes off, glares down blurrily at his feet.

After a long silence, Cas touches his face again, his palm to Dean’s cheek, lifting his eyes back up. “It hurt you,” he says, as if the truth is unfolding before his eyes. “All those times I had to leave, it hurt you like it hurt me when you left Rexford.”

He shrugs; he can’t answer for how Cas felt. 

“Oh,” Cas says, like it’s something dreadful. “I didn’t understand. Dean, I’m sorry. I didn’t understand _anything_ back then.”

“It’s okay.” Dean tries to clear his throat, tries to get a better grip. “I get it. I do. I can be a dick – I piss people off.”

Cas widens his eyes. “You think you deserved it?” he says. “You think people leave you to _punish_ you?”

“I…” He doesn’t understand the question. Why else would people leave? “You—” 

“No.” Cas firms his grip on Dean, his fingers sliding around to cup the back of his neck, holding him in place. “Dean, you’re wrong. When I left it was always _despite_ you, never because of you.”

“Despite me?”

Cas softens his gaze, his fingers warm on the back of Dean’s neck. “Given my choice,” he says, “I would _never_ have left you, Dean. I would have stayed forever, if thought you wanted me.”

“ _If_?” He can’t breathe around the knot in his throat. “Christ, Cas, I wanted you _so_ fucking much.”

Cas smiles, a flash of beautiful surprise. “You did?”

“I _do_. Jesus, Cas, how could you not know?”

His brow contracts, like he’s embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I'm not very practiced at discerning—”

“Hey.” Dean touches his fingers to Cas’s lips, quietening him, apologizing. “Hey, no. It’s okay.” 

“What I do know,” he says, ghosting a breath over the tips of Dean's fingers, “is that I want you. I want you _completely_ , in every possible way.”

“Oh God,” Dean breathes, husky with relief, weak-kneed with how much he wants this. “Cas, I... I need...” And then he’s pushing his fingers into Cas’s messy hair, kissing him like he means it. Like he’s never going to stop.

And Cas responds with a sigh, his hands hesitant at Dean’s shoulders, at his back, settling light at Dean’s waist. The last time they did this, Cas was eager, hungry; this time he’s cautious. Dean holds himself back, lets Cas set the pace. He’s okay with taking it a little slow. There’s too much at stake to rush. 

The room is silent, save the soft sounds they make as they breathe around and into each other, the rustle of clothing as Dean carefully pushes the coat from Cas’s shoulders, lets it slough to the floor. Cas doesn’t need the damn thing; he’s not going anywhere. 

Dean draws him closer, one hand at the small of his back, their belt buckles bumping together with a soft clunk. He cants his head to kiss along the underside of Cas’s jaw, grinning at the surprised groan he gets in response, at the way Cas tightens his hands at his waist. Then Cas finds the edge of _his_ jaw, nuzzles up under his ear, just where Dean always— 

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Yeah, Cas, right there. God.” 

And he can’t keep from rolling his hips forward, the sensation sparking hot around the base of his spine. Cas does the same and Dean realizes he’s mirroring him, learning. It’s at once hot as hell and painfully vulnerable, and brings home how new all this is to Cas: humanity, his emotions, intimacy – all of it. Unbidden, Dean remembers the Reaper, what it did to Cas, and something fierce surges inside him. “Should’ve been me,” he whispers, soft against Cas’s hair. “I should’ve been your first, Cas. Not that—” He can’t even say it, can’t bear to think about it. Instead he finds his way back to Cas’s mouth, tries to kiss the memory away instead. 

Cas slides his arms around Dean’s waist, tugs him closer, and gives another experimental roll of his hips. “You _are_ the first,” he says, gravelly into Dean’s ear. “The first human, if that helps.”

Dean buries his smile into the soft skin below Cas’s ear. “Dude,” he says, “that does _not_ help. Never say that again.”

“Also the first man.”

“Mmmm…” He slips a hand under Cas’s shirt, finds a strip of bare skin at the small of his back. “Better.”

Cas shivers, arcs his hips into him with a sharp inhale of breath, but doesn’t lose his train of thought. “And you’re the first one I love, of course. The only one.” 

And he _would_ say that; Cas knows nothing about this – about how you keep that shit to yourself at first, don’t just lay it all out like you’re peeling off your own skin and inviting someone to turn you into shish kabob. “Cas,” he says, one hand sunk into his hair, gathering him close like he can somehow keep him safe from all the ways Dean could fuck this up. “Jesus, Cas.”

But Cas pulls back, just looks at him with those beautiful eyes of his, somehow knowing and guileless all at once. “I’m not afraid,” he says, like maybe he can read Dean’s mind. Or maybe he can just read Dean. “I’m not afraid of this.”

 _I am_ , Dean thinks, but reaches for him anyway. He can’t help himself. He kisses Cas slow and deep, an unhurried exploration that leaves him hard and wanting. “I know I don’t deserve you,” Dean breathes against the corner of his mouth, “but, God, I want you so bad.”

“Yes,” Cas says, his words a hot pulse against Dean’s neck. “Yes. Dean, _please_.” 

He takes a steadying breath, sets his hands on Cas’s shoulders, and pushes back gently. Cas is watching him with wide, hungry eyes. “Bedroom?” Dean suggests, more cautious than he’s been in years. But this feels like the first freakin’ time for him too, momentous in ways he barely dares fathom. “You sure?”

Cas nods. “Mine,” he says. “My room.”

And, yeah, Dean gets it. He gets that entirely. Castiel is never going to be anyone’s conquest. 

They part, breathless and flushed, but only long enough to reach the bedroom before their hands are on each other again. The bunker is empty, save them, and they leave the bedroom door wide open. There’s something reckless about that, about the heady freedom of the moment, that’s thrilling. “Fuck, I want you,” Dean says out loud, declaring it to the world as he pulls his shirt over his head and throws it aside. “I want you so fucking much.”

Cas watches him with dark eyes, all pupil. “Yes,” he says, fumbling with his own shirt. “ _Yes_.”

Dean reaches in to help him, slides his fingers around the buttons, pushes the shirt from Cas’s shoulders, pulls his t-shirt over his head. He makes a sound, practically a growl, at the sight of Cas’s bare chest – every one of those tortuous motel encounters flashing back to him. He sees the scar on his neck from the vamp bite, flits his eyes away from it, down to that freakin’ tattoo and the cut of Cas’s hip bone. “Fuck,” he says, sliding his palm over the tattoo, over warm skin that jumps beneath his touch. “Fuck, yeah. _That_.”

“What?” Cas sounds bemused, glances down, and Dean laughs.

“You have no idea. No—” And then his hands are on Cas’s belt, pulling the buckle open, working on the fly. “Bed,” he says, walking him backward. “Now.”

Cas says, flustered. “Boots.”

Boots. Fuck. “Doesn’t matter,” he says as the backs of Cas’s knees hit the edge of the bed and Dean pushes him back and down. And then his mouth is right there, on that concave curve above his hip, that little slice of inked skin that has tormented him for days. “This,” he says, breathing into it, sliding his tongue along its edge. “Fucking this, Cas. Jesus.”

Small tremors ripple through the soft skin of Cas’s stomach, his muscles shaking as Dean presses over him and works his mouth along his hipbone. He thinks he might die there, could happily die there. His head is spinning with want, with need and – God help him – with something much deeper than any of it: terrifying, implacable _love_.

He feels a tentative touch to his head, Cas’s fingers slipping through his hair. “Dean,” he breaths, short and light. “Dean, _boots_.”

He smiles, feral, into his favorite piece of skin because that is _so_ Cas. It’s so fucking Castiel. “Okay,” he says, running his teeth light along the ridge of hipbone. Cas makes a half strangled noise, bucks his hips up and Dean’s smile broadens. “Easy tiger. Boots. I’ll get your fucking boots off.” 

It takes entirely too long to undo whatever kind of freaky knot Cas has tied in his bootlaces, but at last the damn things are off, so is everything else, and Cas is deliciously naked, gazing up at Dean with fuck-me eyes and ravaged hair. Dean can hardly keep it together as he unbuckles his own belt, slides out of his jeans. 

Cas says, all smoke-scarred and breathless, “I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything as much as I want you to touch me right now.”

There’s no answer to that, not in words. So Dean answers him in other ways, in long, deep kisses, in the slow slide of their heated bodies, in the press of his mouth against his skin, of his hands exploring, teasing, teaching. Cas is responsive as hell and he learns Dean as fast as Dean learns him. And Cas is utterly unabashed, fucking _fearless_ in his exploration. 

“Like this?” he breaths into the hollow of Dean’s hip. “Right here?” 

Against the small of his back, lower: “More? Like that.” 

“Does that feel good, Dean?” His fingers trace soft skin of Dean’s inner thigh. “Do you like this?”

And it goes on forever, this slow inquiry, until Dean is lightheaded with desire, until he’s shaking with the need for release. “Cas,” he finds himself gasping. “Cas, please. C’mon.” And when he wrests back control Cas doesn’t seem to mind, he lets Dean set the pace as they slide hot and slick together and the heat builds and builds, coiling around the base of Dean’s spine with every one of Cas’s low incoherent pleas. 

Cas gets lost as he approaches the crest. Utterly lost, his eyes fluttering back, chest heaving, and imprecations in languages Dean has never heard falling from his lips in throaty gasps. He’s so beautiful, so wild, so utterly abandoned, that just the sight of him is almost enough to send Dean thundering over the edge. “Cas,” he growls, “Oh God. Oh God, _Castiel_.”

With a startled cry, Cas bucks up sharp into Dean’s fist, eyes blown wide and his fingers clutching at Dean’s shoulder as he shudders and gasps. It’s enough. Dean’s chasing him down, starbursts whiting out his thoughts, sparking constellations along his spine, deep into the heart of him. His body shivers and shakes with the force of it, and he’s falling, flying, his head full of _Cas, Cas, oh god, Cas_.

And then Cas is right there, sweat-slick and trembling with his face pressed into the crook of Dean’s shoulder, breath fluttering hot and panicky against his skin. “Dean,” he gasps. “Dean…”

“Hey,” he murmurs, wrapping leaden arms around Cas’s shaking shoulders. “Hey, shhhh…”

“I didn’t know—” His voice is raw edged, shattered. “It’s so _much_ …”

Dean presses his mouth into Cas’s hair, strokes a hand over his shoulders, holding him while he falls apart and tries to haul himself back together. “Yeah,” he says, closing his eyes against his own emotional backwash, fierce and protective, burning him up from the inside. He tightens his arms around Cas and he thinks he’ll kill anyone, any fucking thing, that ever tries to hurt this man. “It’s okay,” he breathes, thick and raw. “It’ll pass. Just ride it out, man. Ride it out.”

And he does, the intensity of it fading as their breathing slows, their skin cools. Eventually Cas loosens his vicelike grip, eases back. Not far, but enough that Dean can see his face. He looks gorgeous. Sinful, delicious, utterly wrecked. With a smile, Dean pushes his fingers through his mop of hair and says, “Hey.”

“That was…” Cas lifts an arm, drops it boneless across Dean’s stomach, like he barely has control of his limbs. “I didn’t know it was possible to feel so _much_. It was overwhelming.”

Dean gives a lazy smile, feels it slip onto his face as he stretches, adjusts his arms to pull Cas closer. “It’s intense like that sometimes.”

“Sometimes?”

“With the right person.” He smiles, then lets his expression shift. “Other times, it can be more…playful.”

A speculative light touches Cas’s eyes, but doesn’t linger. He’s still too caught up in the moment, and that’s fine by Dean. Anything Cas wants is fine by Dean. 

They drift for a while, wrapped together. It’s still pretty early, but it’s been a draining few days and this feels fragile and tender. Dean’s afraid to move, as if that might shatter the dream, bring it all tumbling down around his ears. 

Eventually Cas shifts next to him, stirring enough to thread fingers through his hair, stretching and stifling a yawn. “You know,” he says, settling back against Dean’s shoulder, pressing warm down the entire length of him, “in all my millennia of existence, I don’t think I’ve ever felt as deeply happy as I do right now.”

Dean’s heart kicks hard and he presses a kiss into Cas’s hair, breathes in the scent of his own shampoo until he’s back in control of his soft, girly heart. “You know,” he says, “for a former warrior of God and weapon of Heaven, you can be kind of a sap.”

Cas makes a noise, a huff of indignation against the sensitive skin of Dean’s collarbone. “And you can be kind of a jerk.”

“Mmmm,” Dean agrees, finding Cas’s jaw and tilting it up so he can see him better. His heart is racing but he ignores it, defies his own fears. “But I’m the jerk who loves you, doofus.”

And saying it right there, like that, isn’t really frightening at all. Not when Cas is looking at him with those gorgeous eyes, so ridiculously happy. “I suppose I can live with that,” Cas says and kisses him slow and sweet on the mouth. “I could live with that for a very long time.” 

“You better,” Dean says, cupping a hand against Cas’s face, holding him there. “Because you ain’t going anywhere, buddy. Not ever.”

Cas gives a solemn nod. “Except, perhaps, to the bathroom?” He trails a hand along Dean’s sticky stomach, raising an eyebrow. 

Dean thinks he might actually die from how much he loves him in that moment, but what he does is lift a suggestive eyebrow and say, “You ever taken a shower with a dude before?”

“Often,” Cas says, deadpan. “In the homeless shelters, showers were communal.”

Dean’s outrage is affectionate, delighted. “Screw you.”

Cas hides his smile against Dean’s chest, but he can feel it there, warm over his heart as Cas says, “Now _that_ will certainly be a first.”

***

Castiel wakes alone but unconcerned the next morning, body heavy with the best sleep he’s ever enjoyed. He stretches out across his bed – _his_ bed – and smiles into the semi-darkness. He can hear noises coming from elsewhere in the bunker. Music, low, and the sizzle of something cooking – bacon, by the aroma.

He’s hungry, his stomach growls, but he doesn’t want to get up right away. He’s enjoying the warmth of the bed, the way his sleepy body is sinking into the mattress. Memory foam, he remembers, unsure exactly what it means. But it’s certainly extremely comfortable. On the table next to his bed, the clock tells him it’s 08:39, which means he’s slept for almost ten hours. He’s never in his life slept for so long in one stretch. But then he’s never slept with Dean pressed warm along the length of his back before, his arm tight around his waist, and just the memory of that, of all that had preceded it, makes him smile again. He sucks in a breath, lets it out in a contented sigh, and feels happy.

So very happy.

After a few more self-indulgent minutes the pleasure of lying in bed is outweighed by a desire to see Dean again, to touch him, kiss him. It feels ridiculously urgent, given that they’ve spent literally hours asleep in the same bed, but who’s he to question these overwhelming human emotions? Last night, he’d thought they were going to sweep him away entirely – and perhaps they would have, without Dean’s arms anchoring him until the storm had passed.

It makes him understand, in a way that perhaps he never has before, the devotion between Dean and Sam – the things they’ve done, the sacrifices they’ve made for each other. Love – the human experience of love, specifically – is the most powerful, compelling and terrifying force he’s ever encountered. 

It’s not surprising that angels and demons fear it so deeply.

His stomach growls, humanity nudging into his thoughts, and he switches on the lamp and gets up. His bare skin feels chilled as he hunts around for clothes, the floor cold beneath his feet. Dean must have brought his bag into the room because it’s sitting next to the closet and Castiel pulls out sweat pants, a t-shirt, and the old hoody he’d picked up – _stolen_ – from the laundromat after the fall. He considers it for a moment before he slips it on. The memories it inspires are mixed, but it’s part of his story now and he wants to remember all of the journey that brought him here.

His feet are cold, so he pulls on some socks and pads along the corridor to the kitchen. In the doorway he pauses, stopped by another bombardment of feeling. Dean has his back to him, cooking bacon and pancakes – one pan for each – humming under his breath to the music playing, hips swaying in time with the beat. He looks so happy, so relaxed, and Castiel almost can’t breathe for a moment because he knows that it’s because of him.

He’s made Dean this happy. He _makes_ Dean this happy.

He takes a moment to ride out the sensation – as Dean had put it – before he says “Hello Dean” and steps into the kitchen.

Dean spins around with a grin. “Hey,” he says, eyes sparkling – it’s not even hyperbole, they’re actually sparkling with happiness – “you’re awake.”

He acknowledges the obvious with a nod and says, “You’re cooking, which is more important.”

“Hungry?” 

“Very.”

“Good. I made enough for about ten people.”

There’s coffee on the counter and Castiel heads toward it – lets his hand trail over the small of Dean’s back as he passes, smiles at the little shiver he gets in response. 

He can sense Dean watching him as he stirs in cream and sugar, glances over with a smile. Dean grins back, amused.

Castiel narrows his eyes. “What?”

“Nothing,” Dean says with those sparkling eyes of his alight with laughter. “It’s just— Dude, you need to learn how to use a comb or something.”

He lifts a hand to his hair. “Bad?”

“Nah,” Dean says, his smile turning from amused to fond. “I like it all fucked up.”

He lifts a skeptical eyebrow. “You do?” 

“Sure,” Dean says, sliding a pancake onto the growing pile next to the stove. “Makes you look like you’ve just been ravaged, or something.”

Castiel smiles around the lip of his mug, “Well, in this case that would be accurate.”

“Yeah,” Dean says and his expression turns distant, his smile dreamy. “Hell, yeah.”

They eat sitting next to each other, quiet, knees pressed together beneath the table. There are a lot of pancakes – they eat almost all of them. And Dean sometimes kisses him between bites, tasting of coffee and maple syrup, and it’s all wonderful. Dreamlike. Perfect.

After breakfast they tumble back into bed and into each other, and stay there for the rest of the morning. Castiel thinks he’ll never tire of this physical intimacy, of how his soul entwines with Dean’s in ways that were impossible before he was human – in ways more profound than anything he knew as an angel. In those moments of ecstasy, of mind-blanking rapture, Castiel touches Heaven again. He wonders if Dean experiences it the same way, if he knows that what happens between them is sacred. One day, perhaps, he’ll tell him.

Sam calls later to say he’ll be home that evening. Castiel isn’t privy to the brothers’ conversation, but Dean is relaxed and tells him that Sam’s looking forward to seeing him. For his part, Castiel is looking forward to seeing Sam – but also concerned that his presence here, both at the bunker and in Dean’s life – might be considered an intrusion.

But given that neither are, from his perspective, negotiable he says nothing to Dean.

Castiel spends some time that afternoon unpacking his things from his bag, arranging them in his room. He thinks it’s impossible to express to Dean how much it means that Dean created this space for him, so he’s surprised when Dean just squeezes his shoulder and says, “I get it, man. I never really had a room before either, until we found the bunker.”

He thinks about that later, as they stretch out on the sofa and watch a movie together. This bunker is the first real home Dean and Sam have ever had, the first place safe enough to come back to, to trust to be there for them. It’s the same for him too, or will be, he hopes. If Sam is willing. 

That’s how Sam finds them when he makes it back in the early evening – Dean stretched out on the sofa, asleep, his feet in Castiel’s lap and the TV playing quietly in the background.

Castiel feels himself tense when he hears the bunker door close, his fingers stilling against Dean’s socked feet. He’s not sure what to do, suddenly awkward and wishing Dean was awake. At the same time he’s glad Dean’s asleep, because it will give him and Sam time to talk alone.

Sam stops in the doorway to the living room, his bag over his shoulder, taking in the scene. The situation would be fairly clear to read, even if Dean hadn’t told Sam in advance. He sees Sam’s eyes run over them both, sees him process it, and then sees the warm smile that breaks out on his face. “Cas,” he says, “hey, man.”

“Hello Sam.”

He looks a little awkward, but not unhappy, and says, “I’m just gonna…” and nods toward the bedrooms. 

Castiel slips out from under Dean’s feet and follows him. “Sam,” he says quietly, once they’re far enough away not to wake Dean. “Wait.”

Sam turns. “Yeah?”

“This… I hope this is okay with you? Me being here.”

“Dude, of course,” Sam says like it’s unarguable. “Are you joking?”

“Not intentionally, no.”

Sam smiles again and takes a step closer. “Cas, seriously, I couldn’t be happier. I mean it’s—Look, to be honest, I’d almost given up on Dean ever having anything – anyone – in his life that wasn’t… that…” 

He comes to a halt, but Castiel understands. “That wasn’t you?” he supplies gently.

“Yeah,” Sam says, glancing back to the living room. He lowers his voice. “Don’t get me wrong, you know how I feel about Dean, but this… This is good for him. For both of us, I think. You know?”

Of course he knows. “You’re entitled to your own life, Sam. There’s nothing wrong with wanting some space. It doesn’t make you ungrateful.” 

“Right,” he says. “I know, it’s just— Sometimes, with Dean, I wondered if he’d ever let go enough to…” He trails off, frowns, and says, “Listen, don’t tell him I said any of that, will you?”

Castiel puts a hand on his arm, meets Sam’s earnest expression. “I will always,” he says, “look out for your brother. You don’t need to worry about him.” 

Sam smiles, nods. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I know.” And then he pulls Castiel into one of his huge bear hugs. “Thanks, Cas. Really, man, I mean it. _Thank you_.”

Castiel returns the hug with a smile and says, “It’s literally my pleasure, Sam.”

And that makes Sam snort a laugh – “Okay, gross, Cas” – and half punch him on the shoulder. It’s such a familiar, brotherly gesture that it makes Castiel’s heart swell in yet another new way. Who knew there were so many ways to feel happy?

He lets Sam retreat to his room and returns to Dean, pushing his feet off the sofa both so that he can sit down and also to wake Dean up. Dean blinks, disoriented, a sharp frown between his eyes, expecting trouble. Then the clouds part – he remembers where he is – and he smiles, reaching for Castiel. “Hey,” he says. “Okay?”

Castiel runs a hand along Dean’s arm as he sits up. “Sam’s back.” 

“Yeah?” Dean fixes Castiel with an intent look, trying to read something in his face. His eyes narrow, wary. “What?”

“Nothing,” Castiel says. “It’s just— It’s nice.”

“Nice?”

“Now that we’re all home,” Castiel clarifies. “It’s nice that we’re all home. Together.”

Dean doesn’t answer right away. Castiel can see the flash of emotion in his eyes that makes him chew at his lip while he nods. He understands, now, that Dean is ‘riding it out’. “Yeah,” he says once he’s back under control. “Yeah, it’s good.”

Castiel slips his arm around Dean’s shoulders, pulling him in and close, breathing in the scent of his hair as their socked feet bump together on the floor. “It’s good to be home, Dean,” he says quietly, meaning it, feeling the truth of it bright in his chest. “It’s really good to be home.”

Dean presses a fervent kiss to Castiel’s temple. He says, “A-fucking-men to that.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title from _Homecoming_ by Green Day
> 
> “My heart is beating from me,  
> I am standing all alone,  
> Please call me only if you are coming home."
> 
> Thanks so much for reading - I hope you enjoyed it! You can find me on Tumblr as [enochian-things](http://www.enochian-things.tumblr.com/) so come and say hi! :)


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